You Can't Always Get What You Want
by TEP Redux
Summary: AU - Seven college friends reunite after one of their own suddenly kills himself. Old fires will be rekindled, and new feelings will bubble to the surface as the group tries to figure out why Kenny did what he did. Some will find love, and some will seek redemption. Laughs will be had, and tears will be shed. Rated T for language, thematic elements, sexual situations, and drug use.
1. Prologue: The News

_Hi there! _

_I am so happy that you are reading this story, whether you sought it out or stumbled upon it by chance. I have wanted to write this one for a while now, and I'm glad I finally have the time to do so. This story is inspired by the film _The Big Chill_. For those of you have seen it, I have taken a great deal of creative liberties here, updating it for the twenty-first century, re-gendering some characters, and modifying several plot points. More than anything, I feel this story pays homage to the spirit of that film, and I am excited to recreate its premise in a _South Park_ AU, one in which the characters all met each other in college. Now, without further ado, I present the prologue._

_Happy readings!_

_TEPR_

* * *

><p>Kyle looks down at him in the bathtub and smiles, his heart momentarily swelling. The older his son gets, the more surreal this sense of déjà vu, this feeling of pride and accomplishment and terror, becomes. When Sophie was born eight years ago, Kyle knew that something special had happened, that his and Bebe's lives had been irreversibly changed for the better. Six years later, when Xavier came along, it felt like someone had hit the rewind button, forcing Kyle to experience it all again, this time in slow motion, but a little bit wiser and more knowing. It is difficult sometimes not to feel that his life is now one of compromise, whereas before, even when he was married and childfree, it was his own to live. Now he finds himself responsible for these two other people, smaller and needier and less rational than himself, and even though it can be occasionally frustrating, all of that melts away in an instant whenever he looks at one of his children, really soaks them in. Now is one of those times.<p>

"Daddy, where's Sophie?"

"She's visiting a friend," Kyle responds as he shampoos Xavier's head, amazed at how soft the two year-old's curls are, unlike his own, which have grown brittle and fractured with age.

"Where's Mommy?" his son asks, not acknowledging the previous response.

"That's a good question," he says, thinking that now is about the time Bebe usually pops in to take over the remainder of bath duty.

The door to the master bedroom squeaks open, and Kyle can hear her through the wall as she fills the room. Something is slightly off in her voice, and after a moment, he understands: something is wrong, and she is trying to remain composed, perhaps for Xavier's sake, or perhaps for her own.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know," she says. "Someplace in Colorado. I'll have to check."

Kyle leans back and sees her flip open her laptop, her phone nuzzled under her ear. She's been crying, and he wants to know why. If she notices his stare from inside the bathroom, she doesn't acknowledge it.

"Is it Mommy?" Xavier whispers, wide-eyed, knowing he has to use his inside voice when an adult is near him on the phone.

Kyle nods, returning his gaze to his son as he rinses his back, keeping his ear cocked in the direction of the bedroom.

"The place is called South Park," she finally says. "I'm assuming they still live there. I have a phone number, but I don't know if it's any good. Would you prefer that I—?" And then: "No, of course. I understand. I appreciate it, I do. Thank you." She whispers those last two words, but Kyle can still make them out, the dark quiet of the bedroom in contrast with the light and energy spilling from the tub before him.

Then Bebe is at the door, and she stares at him with deep, sad eyes. Without saying a word, her eyes tell him that she will get him up to speed once Xavier is asleep. They ask him to finish their son's bath because she needs to be alone right now. They politely excuse her from the room, and Kyle is positive that later, as he towel-dries the boy's hair, he can hear her choke back a sob downstairs in the kitchen.

* * *

><p>The first voice Kyle hears when he returns to his bedroom is Wendy's. As he had gone to put their child to bed, Bebe told him that she was going to start letting people know about the arrangements. It only made sense for her to call her best friend first, since the police in Beaufort had already made the call to Kenny's family.<p>

"This is just so crazy," Kyle hears Wendy say as he closes the door. He peeks around the side of the bed where Bebe is sitting, cross-legged, staring at her friend in the soft glow of her laptop. "Hi, Kyle," Wendy says, sniffling, giving a halfhearted wave but in notably better spirits than he expected. He had always thought of Wendy and Kenny as kindred spirits who shared some kind of spiritual bond that eclipsed the rest of them. Or maybe he just thought that because Wendy was the reason most of them ever met Kenny. He certainly wasn't the type of person Kyle would have naturally gravitated toward; if he had met Kenny under different circumstances, Kyle probably would have assumed he was some sort of burnout degenerate, someone on the fast track to failure. But there was something about the way Wendy introduced him to Kyle and Stan, the twinkle in her eyes that told them that here was someone worth talking to, someone worth knowing. And just like that, their merry trio expanded to a quartet, and by the end of his first semester, Kyle had met three of the seven great friends he would find in college: Stan, then Wendy, and a few months later, Kenny.

"I'm in court Thursday afternoon, but I can hit the road after, as long as you don't mind me arriving late at night." The sound of Wendy's voice jolts Kyle back to the present, to the reality of what has happened.

"Of course not," Bebe replies, pulling her husband down to the bed beside her. "Kyle and I will be flying in that morning. You can help us spruce up the house. Tweek offered—it was sweet, really, but there's only so much you can expect from someone who's grieving in a time like this."

Wendy nods. "Does everyone know about Tweek?" she asks.

Bebe looks to her husband, seemingly exasperated at a new revelation. "No, and I suppose we're going to have to tell them, aren't we?"

"It's not a bad idea," Kyle responds, "but I don't think anyone will be weird about it."

"Except for Kenny's family," Bebe says. "Christ, I bet the detective didn't even tell his mother. He's probably not comfortable talking about it. But she has to know. She'll be in enough shock already." She takes a deep breath. "I suppose I should call her tomorrow, after she's had some time to process what's happened." She looks to Kyle again. "I guess we should get to work. We have a lot more calls to make tonight."

"Let me help," Wendy offers. "You shouldn't have to do it all. Let me tell Clyde and Eric. I know their numbers. And I'll tell them about Tweek, too. You two already have so much to do before Friday."

Bebe smiles, glad that her best friend is there for her, even 500 miles away. "I gave you the name of the church, right? On the off-chance anyone needs a place to crash, we can put up one or two others besides you."

"Besides me?" Wendy asks.

"Of course. Please stay the night Friday. Stay for the weekend, if you want. We'll be there until Monday. If you're coming all the way up to Beaufort, you may as well not have to drive back down again the next night."

Wendy replies, smiling, "It's only four hours, but if you insist." Bebe squeezes Kyle's hand and leans over to kiss him. Wendy rolls her eyes. "You two are too much." She sighs, the weight of the situation hitting her again. "I'll see you in a few days," she says weakly, waving as she ends the call.

As Bebe closes her computer, Kyle hugs her waist, pulling her into him. She is thankful for his awareness, that he knows she needs to cry again. She holds him tightly and takes a slow breath, regaining her composure.

"If Wendy's calling Eric and Clyde, then that only leaves Stan," she finally says.

"And Craig," Kyle says, leaning back to stretch.

"How will you get in touch with him? He doesn't use Facebook. I don't even think he has an email address."

"I think I have his number, believe it or not. Don't know why. I haven't spoken to him in years." Kyle flinches at the thought, remembering the last time he saw Craig, their fight.

"Maybe we should let Wendy tackle that one, too. You know she wouldn't mind."

"What? No," he says. "I can do it. I mean, I _should_ do it. He's my friend, or at least he used to be." Kyle tries to remember the last time he spoke to Craig before their fight. He tries to remember the last time he spoke to Eric or Clyde at all. Or even Kenny, the bastard. "I'll call Craig just as soon as I talk to Stan," he says.

* * *

><p>When Stan calls back, Kyle is three beers in and nearly down for the count. He lolls his head over to glance at the clock. 10:37 p.m. He answers groggily, pushing himself out of the armchair and shuffling to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.<p>

"Hey, man," Stan says on the other end. "Sorry I missed you earlier. I was at dinner. What's up?"

As he puts on the kettle, Kyle tries to remember what he said, exactly, in his text to Stan. Something about calling him back ASAP, he's pretty sure. Now that Kyle has him on the phone, there is so much he needs to say, and he has no idea how to start. He wonders how Bebe rattled it off so effortlessly to Wendy. Maybe he should just say it, he thinks. But maybe it can't be that easy.

"You know Kenny's been living at our vacation house in South Carolina?" he starts, not sure himself if it's a question.

"Yeah, I guess," Stan says. "What are you doing up this late, anyway? I figured I'd get your voicemail. Isn't it nearly midnight there?"

Kyle chuckles. "No, that's the East Coast. St. Louis is an hour behind. Besides, I'm not some old fart. I can keep up with you, Mr. L.A. Hotshot."

Stan smiles at that, hailing a cab. "Yeah, well, it's not all glamorous. I'm just going to make an appearance at some benefit gala. Lou Gehrig's disease or some shit. The sick part is they're the ones giving _me_ money, for a stupid photo op. It's fucked."

"You are a piece of work, my friend," Kyle tells him, pouring a cup of chamomile tea.

"Yeah, no kidding," Stan says, stepping into the cab. "Anyway, what's up?"

Kyle inhales sharply, realizing he can no longer delay the inevitable. He takes a seat and sips his tea, telling his friend about their friend who is no longer with them. He tells Stan what he knows and answers his questions as well as he can. He tells him that Kenny slit his wrists in the downstairs bathtub, the one adjacent to the bedroom he had called home for the last ten months. He tells him that the funeral is Friday—yes, as in four days from now, Friday—and that he and Bebe hope Stan can come but understand if he can't.

"It would mean a lot to Kenny's family if you could make it," Kyle says.

"Shit," Stan whispers. "Of course I can come. I mean, I have to. I want to be there. My agent is going to kill me, but fuck her, right? This is a code-red situation. I'm coming to South Carolina."

Kyle smiles as he finishes his tea. He'd heard that fame changes people, but he should have known that no matter what happens, Stan is still Stan at his core. He is still Kyle's best friend who can find time in his busy life of film premieres and press junkets and insipid talk show chitchats to call Kyle back, to stay updated on the important stuff, if nothing else.

"There's something else you should know about," Kyle says after he's told Stan about the funeral arrangements and the location of the church and the repast to follow at his and Bebe's summer house. "The last few months, Kenny had a live-in girlfriend," he says. "She's still there. It wasn't exactly a traditional arrangement."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. For one, she's young," Kyle says. "Like really young."

"Shit. Jailbait?"

"No, but close."

"Jesus."

"Yeah. But the other thing is that's she's transgender. It's not weird or anything, but we thought you should know, in case you're caught off guard when you meet her."

"Transgender how?" Stan asks, paying his cabbie and stepping out. "Like she's becoming a man, or she used to be a man?"

"Used to be a man," Kyle says. "I mean, she still is biologically, maybe, I don't know. Sorry. That's not important. I don't know why I said it. It's the beer talking."

"Hey, no need to apologize to me."

"I just wanted to give you a heads-up about her in case you thought it was weird. I mean, she is kind of weird, but not because she's transgender. She's just… odd. You'll see what I mean. Her name is Tweek, if that gives you any indication."

"Tweek? Huh. To tell you the truth, Kyle, nothing really surprises me anymore. I live in Hollywood. Everyone's flying their own freak flag out here, myself included."

Kyle chuckles at that. He glances at the clock. It's past eleven, way past his bedtime. "I'll see you Friday, my friend."

"See you Friday," Stan says before slipping his phone into his pocket. He peers inside the building where he is about to make an appearance and collect a paycheck, momentarily repulsed by the artifice and pompous self-satisfaction that he knows lurk inside those walls. He is better than this, he thinks.

"Stan Marsh!" someone shouts as they drive by slowly, capturing his attention long enough to snap a photo. He flicks them off as they speed away. Maybe he's not better than this after all, he thinks. He spends a moment pondering all of the decisions that have delivered him to this moment in his life, here on these wretched steps. How many of these decisions have brought him closer to love or happiness? How many have brought him closer to satisfaction, to friendship? He shivers at the thought that one of his best friends has killed himself, and then immediately feels like shit. He's not even sure that he would have called Kenny a friend these last few years. Where was he? Who was he? Maybe Stan will find out Friday. Maybe it is not too late.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading. <em>_I hope you enjoyed this first installment! I am excited about this story because it represents uncharted territory for me: my first foray into writing the _South Park_ characters as adults. To give you an idea of where this is headed, the rest of the story will take place over the funeral weekend, with each chapter covering the span of one day. I may change that if I find that a day is too much to cover in one chapter (especially once I start juggling more characters), but I think it will be manageable. _

_Anyway, I'd love to hear what you think so far. Please leave a review if you are so inclined; I would appreciate it greatly. _

_Cheers,_

_TEPR_


	2. Friday

_Hi there! _

_First, thank you to everyone who read (and especially those who reviewed) the prologue. I initially wanted to get this chapter out a few days ago, but I have been incredibly busy lately and so have been chipping away at this as I've had time. I decided to stick with my original plan to write three central chapters—one for each day of the weekend—sandwiched between a prologue and epilogue. In that light, this story will mimic the film's structure, though, again, I have taken many creative liberties with the story. That being said, without further ado, I present Friday. _

_Happy readings!_

_TEPR_

* * *

><p>"There's one of them," Clyde says, pointing to the man intently directing traffic into the church parking lot. It is the first time the silence has been broken for what feels like hours. Red refuses to listen to anything on the radio that isn't NPR, and they lost the signal not long after they left the Savannah airport in the rental. "Oh, and there's another, of course," he adds when he notices a second person standing beside the other, smoking a cigarette and staring into the horizon.<p>

"Ah, yes," his wife says, putting down her smartphone for the first time in twenty minutes. "Stan Marsh, lothario extraordinaire."

Clyde looks at her, a bit horrified. "You're not going to mention that tabloid crap, are you? Please don't be an asshole, not today."

She laughs dismissively. "Of course not. Exactly how crass do you think I am? If you want me to put on a show, I will."

"Just keep it civil," he says, putting the car in park. "I haven't seen these people in years, but they're my friends. I want them to remember me the way I remember them."

"Jesus. What does that even mean? Anyway, don't fret. I'll follow your lead, captain," she says, not waiting for a response before stepping out of the car.

A big grin comes across Kyle's face as he approaches the driver's side, lowering the traffic wand to his side. He gives Clyde a pat on the back and shakes his hand.

"Welcome to South Carolina," he says with a comical grandness, masking his sadness the best he can.

"Hello," Red says, approaching the front of the car behind a pair of tastefully oversized sunglasses.

"Kyle Broflovski, I'd like you to meet my wife, Ruby Rosenthal," Clyde says.

"Call me Red," she says, soliciting a purposeful handshake. "I'm so sorry about your loss."

"It's all of our loss," Kyle says, pulling Clyde into a side hug. "Kenny was—well, you know."

"Afraid not," Red replies. "Never had the pleasure."

"Great," Clyde says. "He was great." He begins to make his way toward the church, begging with a glance for his wife to follow. "We'll see you inside," he says to Kyle.

"Sure thing," the other responds, jogging back to his post as he notices a familiar sedan pulling into the lot. It is Wendy with Kenny's sister Karen, who had been so distraught this morning that she managed to leave the motel without shoes. (The McCormick family had insisted upon staying in a motel, they said because they didn't want to intrude, though Bebe and Kyle assume they don't want to sleep in the place where their son and brother had killed himself. Or perhaps it is because they want to spend as little time as possible around Tweek, enigmatic emblem of Kenny's final days that she is.) Wendy had volunteered to drive Karen back to the motel so as not to burden any of the other McCormicks, a gesture no doubt appreciated by the rest of the sullen clan nestled in the front row of the small Baptist church. As Wendy drops Karen off to the rest of the family—her parents, and her brother Kevin and his wife—she is glad to be rid of Karen, who she finds unbearably sad, even under the circumstances.

As she turns around and heads toward a secluded pew in the back of the sanctuary, Wendy's eyes scan the other attendees who have trickled in. Of those she recognizes, there are Tweek, whom she's already talked to; Bebe, who is chatting with the minister; Stan, who flashes her that winning, movie-star grin when she goofily wiggles her eyebrows at him; and Clyde, who is seated next to a neatly composed, sleek woman with striking red hair. Wendy waves at them as she passes, and Clyde returns the gesture, smiling solemnly. The sleek woman shoots her a confused stare and whispers something to Clyde, who whispers something back to her. The sleek woman nods slowly, suddenly appearing to understand.

Wendy settles into the pew she has been eyeing, two from the back, sitting a yard right of center. Nobody is behind her, and she likes that. She retrieves the small program from her jacket pocket, glancing back at the paragraph she has already committed to memory, a tidy summary of Kenny's life and accomplishments: born in the small town of South Park thirty-four years ago, middle child of three, graduated with honors from the University of Colorado Boulder in physics, Fulbright honoree, never married. She sighs at the thought of so much wasted potential before her attention is captured by whispers not far behind her. Kyle is speaking with Eric Cartman, whose face Wendy has not seen in person in nearly a decade. He has lost some of the weight he carried in college but still maintains a bulky frame, though now it appears to be predominantly muscle. Wendy would find him attractive if his personality didn't grate her. Despite his charisma and charm, Wendy always found Eric shallow and the most irritating of her college friends, by far. She thinks she spots a toupee and can only assume his hairline is receding. She understands, though: the balding whispers of early middle age do not suit his jazzy, jet-setting lifestyle.

"Could you sit with Tweek?" Kyle asks Eric, pointing out the blonde on the left side of the church, near the front. No one is seated anywhere near her. Eric nods, moving toward the front.

"May I join you?" he asks, gently resting his hand on Tweek's shoulder. She nods silently. "I'm Eric," he says, scooting in.

"Tweek," she whispers, moving over slightly to accommodate him. She then gives him a brief, curious glance before staring straight ahead again.

Eric is not sure what proper protocol is in a situation like this, but he decides to play the comforting card, slipping his arm around her back. She does not seem offended by this and, in fact, scoots a bit closer, seemingly thankful for the physical connection. Eric studies her furtively, realizing that this is the first time he has been in such close proximity to a transgender woman. He had interviewed Laverne Cox a couple of months prior via telepresence, live on national TV, but there is something more real and visceral about being here next to Tweek that intrigues him. He knows he shouldn't be, that it is rude and probably insensitive, but he is fascinated by her body—the juxtaposition of her long, untamed blonde hair and smart black suit and skirt against her pale and bony frame, once considered masculine and distinctly male. Now she inhabits an in-between gender space that for a moment hypnotizes Eric, until he remembers who she is and why he is here today.

In the back of the church, Kyle looks at his watch and nods to the minister. It's time to start. He closes the rear doors and shuffles up to the second row, resting his arm behind Bebe's back as he joins her. The minister, a small man with parted blonde hair, presumably in his early forties, approaches the pulpit with sad but compassionate eyes.

"Good afternoon," he begins, introducing himself as the Reverend Leopold Stotch. "It is with great sadness that we gather today to mourn the life of Kenneth McCormick. I did not know Mr. McCormick personally, but I know some of you who did—his friends—and I have heard nothing but wonderful things about this man whose life was ended so suddenly and tragically."

The minister continues with a more personalized expansion of the biographical blurb from the funeral program before transitioning to a homily about the sanctity of human life. It is during this part of the service that he raises his voice for the first time, as well as when Kenny's mother is no longer able to hold back her sobbing, the sounds of which fill the room up to its vaulted ceiling, as if in competition with the sermon. It is while Mrs. McCormick's wails eclipse the room that Craig sneaks into the back of the sanctuary quietly, having arrived late in his old beater Camaro. He stops to squeeze Wendy's shoulder and kiss her lightly on the cheek before walking up a few rows and scooting in next to Stan, who shakes his hand firmly and smiles.

"Why did Kenneth choose to end his life in such a tragic way?" the Reverend Stotch ponders. "You may ask yourself this, and you would be right to do so, for it is difficult to grasp the reality of such an action from a man whose friends described as kind and brilliant and entirely generous of spirit. What do we make of the world when a man like Kenneth commits such a grave act? Are the satisfactions of being a good man among our common men not great enough to sustain us anymore? Apparently this was not the case for Kenneth, who for whatever reason saw fit to depart from this world prematurely and of his own accord."

The Rev. Stotch continues with his existential pondering for a few more minutes before offering a prayer of blessing for the assembled and for Kenny. As the minister exits, Kyle approaches the pulpit, hand shaking and wiping a tear from his eye. He cannot force himself to meet the gaze of any of Kenny's family members, but as he recites the brief speech he has committed to memory—about how much he will miss his friend and how Kenny was too damn good for this world—he scans the crowd, finding faces one by one: first Stan, who has also been crying; and then Craig, seated beside him, who Kyle is glad to see but who stares ahead like a frozen zombie; and finally to Wendy, who offers a weak, sad smile that propels Kyle to the end of his remarks. As he finishes, he takes a deep breath and glances to the right side of the sanctuary, meeting eyes with the final person who will take the mic.

"And now," Kyle says, "Clyde Donovan, a friend to many of us here, is going to sing one of Kenny's favorite songs." Kyle walks over the piano to accompany. He begins to play some opening bars, leading in to Clyde's cue to begin the vocals. A tear begins to form in Wendy's eye for the first time since the service began, and she realizes she can no longer hold it in. She starts to weep quietly, and Bebe looks back at her, sending a sympathetic smile her way. As she composes herself midway through the song, Wendy still finds herself overcome by emotion, the nauseous feeling in her stomach immediately souring to anger when she looks over to see Clyde's wife staring indifferently, almost icily. Wendy finds herself disgusted by the woman's stone-faced demeanor but is surprised when the thought flashes through her mind that Clyde deserves better.

"Your friend Clyde is a really good singer," Tweek whispers to Eric, almost inaudibly.

"Yeah, he's pretty awesome," Eric remarks, fondly recalling how he and Clyde and Stan used to do musical theater together in college. He suddenly remembers with startling clarity the day he met Kenny, when Stan drug him and Clyde along to meet his other group of friends, and how within no time at all, Eric and Clyde were part of the group, as well—how Kenny, particularly, welcomed them into the fold. Goddamnit, he's going to miss Kenny.

* * *

><p>After the service, Kyle and Bebe greet people as they exit, inviting them to the repast at their house that will follow the trip to the cemetery. The McCormicks are first out the door and tell Kyle they are not sure they will come to the "party", that it will depend how they feel after the interment.<p>

As he exits through the adjacent door, Stan nearly runs into Bebe, who stares at him intently, as though he is a ghost who might depart them, just as Kenny did, if she breaks eye contact.

"I'm so happy to see you," she finally says, crossing her arms against a sudden, frigid draft.

"Yeah. I wish it was under different circumstances, though," Stan replies. He realizes as they continue to chat that even though he has often spoken to Kyle over the years, this is the first time he has seen Bebe or heard her voice in a long while, which fills him with a fleeting, inexplicable melancholy. He momentarily wonders how long it has been since he has seen the rest of his assembled friends and acquaintances as each of them shuffles out of the church individually, away from the memory of their friend who is no longer alive.

The last to exit the building, Wendy jogs over to Craig, who is sifting through the glove compartment of his car. When he hears her voice behind him, he jumps, slamming the compartment quickly.

"Can I bum a cigarette? I know you're holding," she laughs.

"Jesus, Test, you scared me," he replies. "I thought you gave it up in law school."

"I did," she says. "I just really need one right now, you know?"

He nods. "I know." He pulls her into a hug and whispers, "I have something better if you'd prefer."

She blushes and glances around to make sure no one's heard. "Just like old times?"

"Just like old times. Craig Tucker always comes prepared."

A few minutes later, as they are crouched on the other side of his car, flanked by the expansive field behind them, Wendy admits that she can't remember the last time she smoked a joint, that the justice system has turned her into a square.

"A square, Test? What are you, ninety years old? The only people I know who talk like that are your parents."

"What about _your_ parents?"

"You kidding? They're not hip enough to talk like that. Fucking squares."

She laughs loudly at that, glad that the pot is mellowing her out so quickly. Her dull edges are immediately re-sharpened, though, when she spots Clyde and Red making conversation with Kyle and Bebe after the McCormicks are gone. She lets out a low, irritated groan.

"What's the matter, kiddo?" Craig asks. "Don't care for the frigid bitch?"

"How did you know?" Wendy asks, rolling her eyes.

"You always were an easy read, Test. Play nice, though. God only knows whose funeral we'll have to attend before any of us see Clyde again."

She laughs. "Because we've all seen so much of _you_ lately, Mr. Nomad."

"Hey, at least I'm not shacked up in some millionth-floor Seattle penthouse, looking down on the rest of the world. She's a rich bitch, you know. And Clyde's completely lost touch as a result of it."

"That might be a bit harsh," Wendy says. "I think she's some kind of executive at Microsoft."

"And how do you think she got there? Fucking silver spoon. I assumed that's why you don't like her."

"No, I just think she's uppity. And from what I've heard, she's not very nice to Clyde. He's so sweet. He deserves better."

Craig scoffs. "Please. He's living in the lap of luxury. Someone like him's never going to get it any better than that."

As Kyle begins to round everyone up for the gravesite caravan, Stan jogs over to Wendy.

"Do you mind if I ride with you?" he asks. "I, uhh, took a cab."

"From the Savannah airport?" Wendy asks incredulously. She shakes her head, handing him the keys. "You can just drive mine. I'm feeling kinda out of it. I'm just going to ride with Craig." Stan jogs off, thanking her and polling the rest of the parking lot to see if anyone else needs a ride.

"A bit presumptive, aren't you?" Craig asks, getting into his car.

"I figured you'd pull through, Tucker. You always do." She grins at him, and as she sits, feels something under her. "What the hell is that?" she asks, lifting her ass.

Craig glances under her and sees an assortment of pills that he quickly brushes off the seat. He couldn't remember the exact cocktail he'd taken before walking into the church, but he had been soaring until Clyde started hitting those low notes.

"Just some rocks," he says. "I was hauling pea gravel last week. I don't have a lot of passengers. Sorry."

"Pea gravel?" she says. "Well, aren't you just a jack of all trades."

She stares out the window as Craig drives, wondering how many of the landmarks she sees were frequented by Kenny. Did he ever eat at that restaurant, she thinks, or split a pitcher of beer with friends at that dilapidated bowling alley? After a few blocks, she takes a breath and mutters, "The last time I talked to Kenny, we had a fight."

"That's probably why he killed himself," Craig deadpans, not taking his eyes off the road.

Wendy chuckles, thankful for her friend's brand of humor. She needs a good laugh at a time like this.

"What did you fight about?" Craig asks after a moment.

She sighs and looks back out the window. "I told him he was throwing his life away." Craig's free hand slips over and grabs hers tightly, and they don't say another word until they reach the cemetery.

Three places ahead of them in the caravan, Stan pilots Wendy's ancient Ford Taurus, with Tweek riding shotgun and Eric sitting between them in the backseat.

"I can't stop thinking about that song your friend sang," Tweek says, swaying lightly as she looks out the window. "It was so beautiful and seemed kind of familiar."

"Well, yeah," Stan says. "Don't you remember when it—" He experiences a moment of clarity as he glances at Tweek. "Just how old are you, anyway?"

"Nineteen," she says, crossing her arms. "How old did you think I was?"

"I don't know," he says. "I mean, I hadn't thought about it. Nineteen just makes me feel old, is all."

"How old are you guys?" Tweek asks, suddenly curious.

"Too fucking old," Eric says, shaking his head.

"Kenny's age?" Tweek replies.

"Kenny's age," Stan whispers affirmatively, a lump catching in his throat.

Tweek changes the subject. "I've never ridden in a limo before," she says forlornly, looking ahead past Kyle and Bebe to the front of the caravan, where the McCormick family is riding. "Bebe said I could ride with them if I wanted to, but I thought it would be weird. I mean, I know they don't like me, and they don't approve of our relationship. It's just sad, I guess. I'm sad about it."

"You know, I do a lot of my work in limos," Eric says, leaning forward. "They're pretty overrated, in my opinion."

"Are you a chauffeur?" Tweek replies genuinely. Stan giggles at that.

"No, I'm a journalist," Eric says, which elicits a derisive snort from his friend in the driver's seat. "Are you really still mad about that?" he asks Stan in response. "I don't know how many times I've told you, but that story we did on your affair was not my idea. I just got roped into it."

Tweek leans toward both of them, shifting her eyes back and forth, intrigued by this new drama.

"Yeah, well, you didn't exactly butt in to stop them, either," Stan says. "You have any idea how awful it was to be grilled about that shit on live TV by you, of all people? My agent told me beforehand that it was supposed to be a puff piece. I was fucking humiliated, dude."

"It certainly didn't hurt the sales to that action movie you were promoting," Eric says, crossing his arms. "As I recall, you made a pretty penny off that one. In fact, maybe you should be thanking me."

Stan looks in the rearview mirror with fire in his eyes, suddenly reminded of all the reasons he finds Eric occasionally irritating. He bites his lower lip, glancing at Tweek, who now looks equal parts fascinated, amused, and concerned.

"Let's just drop it, please?" Stan says. "This isn't the time or place."

"I will if you will," Eric replies, sliding back into his seat and smugly cocking an eyebrow.

Tweek looks to both of them and breaks the tension after a moment of silence. "The last night Kenny was alive, we had sex four times. It was fantastic." Eric looks horrified, but Stan shoots Tweek an amused grin.

"He went out with a bang and not a whimper," he says, turning the wheel to follow the caravan into the cemetery.

* * *

><p>After the burial, which affected Bebe much more than she anticipated, she and Kyle welcome their visitors quietly. Neither has much to say as they remove the chilled sandwiches and dips and vegetables from the refrigerator, and the solitude is a welcome comfort. Bebe wonders why did not tear up at the funeral or even on the way to the cemetery when her husband lost his composure again. Instead, she felt most deeply moved after the Rev. Stotch muttered his prayer for the deceased, in the dead silence before the blackbird on the tree behind them started to sing and Mrs. McCormick let loose the waterworks again. The silence, Bebe reasoned in that moment, is the essence of Kenny. It is nothing, yet it is tangible, and it surrounds all of them. It follows them back to their cars and will follow them through the weekend and the rest of their lives. He will follow them—a specter of cherished time, forgotten time, quashed opportunity.<p>

An hour later, as she refills an urn of decaf coffee for her guests, Bebe meets Clyde's glance from across the room, unaware that she is the moment's topic of conversation.

"She's really great," Tweek tells Clyde as she nibbles on a Triscuit. "So is Kyle. They both are."

"Yeah," he says, sipping his beer. "The memorial service was really nice. I can't believe they organized it so quickly, as busy as they are. Did you help them?" he asks, hoping not to sound anything more than curious.

"I wanted to, but they didn't let me do much. Can I tell you something?" she asks, finishing a glass of Chardonnay she's been working on for the last ten minutes. "It's hard not to feel a little unwanted sometimes, you know?"

"Why do you say that?"

"I mean, I'm obviously on the countdown now. I know they're going to kick me out in a few weeks after it's no longer inappropriate to do so. I'm not paying any rent, so why shouldn't they? I'm just some stranger who was living with their old friend in their vacation house."

Clyde's face flushes red, unsure how to respond to the suddenly personal admissions of this person who he has only known for fifteen minutes.

"I'm sure that's not true," he says reassuringly, unsure whether he believes the words himself.

"I hope you're right," Tweek replies, taking a deep breath and looking two steps away from a panic attack. "I mean, I don't know where I'd go. I don't have anywhere else. It's too much pressure." Clyde puts his arm on hers to calm her and tries to lock eyes with his wife across the room, desperately wanting a conversational out without seeming like a jackass.

Unfortunately for Clyde, Red's gaze never meets his, her piercing eyes instead locked on those of her host as he tries to engage her in polite chitchat.

"So how old are your boys now? Clyde's told me all about them," Kyle says, dragging a thin carrot through a runny pool of hummus.

Her lips pursing into a wry smile, she retorts, "He must have neglected some very basic information if you have to ask that question." She pauses for a moment before punctuating the air between them with a single unexpected guffaw. "They're seven," she adds, finishing a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

"That's a great age," Kyle says, unsure whether he should proceed.

"I suppose," she says. "How do you ever really know, though? They only get older, becoming more like real people and less like needy little sponges as the days pass." Red pours herself another glass of Cab, this one nearly overflowing. "I adore that, by the way," she continues, deliberately sipping. "Little ones can be such a bore. Once they have a personality, everything changes. Ari seems to have an almost preternatural business sense for someone so young. I couldn't be prouder, really. Ira, on the other hand, has taken a decided interest in the performing arts. I think the boy's going to be gay, which bothered me a bit at first, until I realized the advantages such a thing offers in today's increasingly competitive world. What about you? You have children, I take it?"

As Kyle begins to respond, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns to see who it is attached to.

"Sorry to interrupt," Eric says, "but can I talk to you?" Kyle nods, so Eric adds a "follow me" before waving half-heartedly to Red.

"What's up, man?" Kyle asks as he follows his friend into the hallway.

"Huh? Oh, nothing. I could just tell that you wanted to blow your brains out listening to Clyde's bitch of a wife."

"What are you talking about? She's perfectly pleasant."

Eric snorts.

"You never change, you know that?" Kyle asks, clearly a bit amused.

"Neither do you, asshole," his friend replies, a grin flashing across his meaty face. "While I have you alone for a second, I was wondering if I could shoot you a business proposition."

"A business proposition?" Kyle asks skeptically.

"I'm thinking of opening a nightclub in the city."

"A nightclub?" Kyle crosses his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, in Manhattan. I've talked to some folks, and they agree with me that it's a perfect idea. The location is amazing, and it'd be a great way to extend my public persona beyond the airwaves, Kyle. It's a no-brainer, really. All I need is a bit more startup funding."

Kyle shakes his head, walking away.

"Come on," Eric says, quickly stepping in front of him. "At least have the decency to shoot me down properly."

"You're out of your fucking mind," Kyle whispers. "First, I'm a small business owner, not some corporate investor. I have a family to help support. Second, this is not the time or place. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Jeez, sorry. It was just an idea," Eric replies, backing off. Kyle rolls his eyes and strolls back to the living room, gravitating toward his best friend, who is sipping a beer in the corner, partially obscured by a potted tree.

"Are you hiding?" Kyle asks, chuckling as he approaches.

"Nah, just trying to blend in with the scenery," Stan says, chugging.

"I see," Kyle replies, propping an elbow on his friend's shoulder. "The life of a movie star never sleeps."

"No kidding. What I wouldn't give for a moment of peace every now and then."

A young boy with a bowl cut and ill-fitting suit approaches them slowly, eyes glistening. "Are you Commander Kamikaze?" he whispers, looking around conspiratorially.

Stan rolls his eyes at Kyle, who grins in amusement.

"That's just a character I played in some movies. My name's Stan Marsh," he says.

"Well, can I have your autograph… whoever you are?" the boy asks, retrieving a rolled up comic book and marker from inside his jacket pocket.

"Don't you think you should be thinking about Kenny today?" he asks.

"Oh, come on," the kids whines. "Please?"

"You should be a good sport, Commander," Kyle says. "He did say _please_."

"I guess I can't argue with that logic," Stan says, scribbling his signature on the comic book. "Now go find your parents and grieve," he tells the kid, who wanders off in a starstruck daze.

"You know, you'd make a good dad," Kyle says, patting his friend on the back. "You should consider it if you ever get married again."

Stan's expression suddenly turns sour. He starts to speak but then doesn't. "I think I need some air," he says. "I'll see you in a bit."

"Yeah, okay, man," Kyle replies as Stan slips out the door, hoping he hasn't upset his friend with a simple offhanded remark.

For the next fifteen minutes, Wendy watches Stan through a kitchen window as she chats with Bebe at the island, gently fingering the grooves of a cutting board as she reflects on the day. She watches as he paces the lawn at first, occasionally checking his phone and running his hands through his hair before plopping onto the lawn and staring into the empty street. She watches as Craig appears from nowhere and joins Stan on the lawn, tousling the back of his friend's head before retrieving a joint from his pocket. She watches as Craig smokes first before offering some to Stan, who accepts. She sees Craig say something and then laugh uproariously before Stan socks him in the arm, laughing himself as he draws in a cloud of smoke. She wonders for a brief moment what would have happened if she and Stan had stayed together, what might have been different.

"Oh, Jesus," Bebe says, noticing what's caught Wendy's eye. "You'd think they'd do that behind closed doors, or at least in the backyard. Our neighbors might see them."

Wendy laughs. "Oh, lighten up."

"Hey, we're in the South," Bebe says. "People are different down here."

"Please," Wendy replies. "I live in the South."

Bebe rolls her eyes. "I would hardly consider Atlanta the South. It might be geographically, but it's also a real place. Not just a bunch of coastal yokels."

Wendy snorts. "You told me this place was a 'charming little getaway' and that you would love to have me up here more often."

"I say that so you'll come visit me so that I'm not stuck here alone with these people when I'm on vacation. Kyle's fonder of the place than I am. Then again, I think anything can charm him."

"You have a good one, you know," Wendy says. "I should be so fortunate to get a catch as good as Kyle. You lucked out."

"Yeah," Bebe whispers. "I really did."

"Speak of the devil," Wendy says jovially when Kyle pops into the kitchen.

"I thought I felt my ears burning," he says, planting a casual smooch on his wife's lips. "I just wanted to let you know that Clyde and Red are staying the night. I couldn't tell them no. Clyde said they had planned to fly home tonight to relieve the nanny, but Red seems to be feeling ill. I think she's wasted."

"Oh, Kyle, where are we going to put them?" Bebe asks. "Wendy's in the other master, Stan is in the guest room, and Eric's in the kids' room."

"Eric's not staying," Kyle says, giving her a look. "There's no way."

She shrugs. "His editor called and said his plans changed. He's on a flight to Dallas Monday afternoon. What was I supposed to tell him, that he should find a hotel in the meantime?"

"A bed and breakfast, a homeless shelter, it doesn't matter to me. I just can't deal with him all weekend."

"Oh, honey, stop being melodramatic. One of us is dead, after all." Bebe is surprised by the words as soon as they leave her mouth. "I'm sorry," she says. "That was shitty."

He takes a breath. "No, you're right, actually. I was being insensitive. This isn't easy for anyone. I'm glad he's here. I'm glad all of us are here, together." He pulls Bebe and Wendy in for a hug.

After a few seconds, Wendy pulls away. She says, "Let Clyde and Red have the second master. I don't need all that space. I can crash on the futon in the study."

Kyle smiles. "Nah, we'll put Stan in there. It'll do him some good—knock him off his high horse a little. You take the guest bedroom."

"I think that's a good plan," Bebe says, stepping behind her husband, and wrapping her arms over his shoulders. "Wendy, would you mind stepping out for a sec? There's something I need to talk to Kyle about in private."

"Ooh la la," Wendy says as she leaves the kitchen, blowing them both a kiss.

"I think Craig is dealing drugs," Bebe says once the door is closed. "It's just a hunch, though."

Kyle nods. "I thought I saw him picking up pills outside his car earlier. I'm not even sure that he has a permanent residence. Did you see how grimy he looked today? At first I thought it was hair gel, but I'm beginning to think he might be in trouble."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Bebe asks, resting her forehead against his.

"Yeah," Kyle says. "He can sleep on the couch in the basement for the weekend."

* * *

><p>"Why are there two twin beds in your second master?" Clyde asks Kyle as he drops his overnight bag on the carpet, shortly after the sun goes down. Kyle places Red's beside it.<p>

"Once Xavier is old enough to sleep in his room alone, we figure we'll let Sophie have this one," Kyle says. "The twins are in case she ever wants to have a friend over, I guess."

Clyde nods, carrying his toiletry bag to the adjoining bathroom. "No, don't bother with that," he quickly says to Kyle, when the latter starts to push the beds together.

"Okay…" Kyle replies, pausing mid-push. "Would you prefer further apart?"

Clyde blushes. "No, I mean… we'll only be here one night, is all. We're not going to do anything. I mean… never mind. You can put them however you'd like."

"Why don't I let you worry about furniture later, buddy?" Kyle asks, slinging an arm over Clyde's shoulder. "How about we grab a drink now instead?"

"I like this plan," Clyde says, now grinning and a bit less embarrassed.

Down the hall in the other master bathroom, Bebe stares at herself in the mirror after the mid-evening shower she randomly elected to take. She knew she needed to clear her mind, and for some reason, burying herself in the seclusion of water seemed like her best option. It wasn't until the jets were cascading down that the reality of it all came crashing upon her—not only the fact that Kenny is gone and never coming back but also all of the shortcomings his death represents in her own life, both directly and indirectly. The knowledge of Kenny's death, the permanence of it, the seeming inevitability—all of it was too much for Bebe to handle, and so, in the privacy of the shower, she let it all loose, sinking down to the cold tile wall as the warm rains embraced her. She must have cried for a good ten minutes before she felt the need to stand and compose herself, shutting off the water and turning herself back on for the remainder of the weekend.

As Bebe continues to stare at herself in the mirror, a towel around her midsection and another over her hair, Tweek passes Kyle and Clyde on their way downstairs to grab a beer. She is thankful that no one else is upstairs to see her slip into Kyle and Bebe's bedroom, after which she creeps to the adjoining bathroom door and knocks lightly with her knuckles.

"Is that you, honey?" the voice from inside asks.

"No," Tweek mutters. "It's me."

"Wendy?" Bebe asks, opening the door as she towel-dries her hair. "Oh, Tweek. What brings you up here?"

"I'm sorry to intrude," the other says. "I was hoping I could talk to you in private, and I wasn't sure when I'd get another chance."

"Is everything okay?" Bebe asks, ceasing the drying.

"This is kind of hard for me to say, but… I don't want it to hang over us anymore. I just want to make sure, you know, there's nothing weird between us—you and me."

"Weird? Tweek, what do you mean?"

"I mean about Kenny."

"Oh." Bebe pauses. "I don't know what he told you," she begins cautiously, "but the truth is that there was nothing between us."

"He talked about you an awful lot, Dr. Stevens. He clearly liked you."

"Tweek, cut the formalities, please. You may be a guest in our house, but you're practically part of the extended family now." She resumes drying her hair, hoping no one else is within earshot of this conversation. "As for Kenny, I don't think he knew what he wanted. The two of us went way back, but we were friends. You know this. Besides, you were the one he was crazy about those last few months. I don't want you to be confused about that."

"I know," Tweek says. "I guess I just wanted everything to be out in the open now that he's gone. I didn't want to be dishonest."

"Dishonest about what?"

"I know about the two of you."

Bebe nods calmly. "I thought that might be where you were headed with this." She walks to the end of the counter and opens a deep drawer, burying her hand in the cluttered abyss. It emerges a few seconds later with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Here's another secret you can keep between us," she says, lighting one and taking a drag.

"I've never met a physician who smoked," Tweek says.

"I gave it up a long time ago, before med school. These are in case of emergency."

"I'm sorry. I just felt the need to tell you. I wanted you to know… that I know."

Bebe waves it off. "No worries. It's ancient history, anyway—years ago. If Kenny still wanted me, he knew he was barking up the wrong tree. Kyle is the one for me, just like you were the one for Kenny."

"That's what makes all this that much shittier," Tweek says, a tear forming in her eye as she begins to jitter. "I know we were only together for a few months, but I thought he was _the one_, you know? I loved him, and I thought he loved me, but then he had to go and fucking kill himself."

It is at this point that Bebe extinguishes her cigarette on the counter, glides over, and pulls Tweek into a hug, the younger of the two shaking and heaving through quiet sobs.

"It's going to be okay," Bebe whispers, hoping that she is telling the truth.

Two floors directly below them, Craig has settled into his makeshift home for the weekend, the couch in the basement living room. His sole neighbor on the floor is currently crying into Bebe's shoulder and splitting a cigarette with her, and Craig appreciates the quiet. He tries to focus his attention on the paperback copy of _War and Peace_ he found sitting on the entertainment center, but his thoughts do not allow him to read. His mind is occupied by too much to make room for Tolstoy. What the hell had Kenny been thinking? What was his killing himself meant to accomplish—anything? Fucking shit, man.

Soon enough a figure appears in the doorway leading up to the ground floor, pulling the door behind her quietly.

"Is anyone else downstairs?" Wendy asks.

"Just me," Craig says. "Tweek's MIA."

"I see," she replies, locking the door behind her. She drops down beside him on the couch. "What do you have there?" she asks, glancing at the cover.

"Oh, you know, just a little light reading." He places the book on the coffee table and looks at her, now aware of a strange intent behind her eyes. "Is everything alright, Test?"

"You know I always liked you," she says, smiling. "The entire last two years at Boulder."

He nods. "I'm aware. But you were with Stan, if you recall."

"Not senior year. I was available, and you never took the bait. I always wondered why. I couldn't figure out if it was because you didn't like me or you thought it would be awkward between you and Stan."

"Stan was a friend, that's true, and I didn't want to jeopardize that. But there was more to it."

"Like what?"

"Oh, come on, Test. It would have been weird. You and I weren't a good match. We had nothing in common."

"What are you talking about? We were revolutionaries."

He snorts. "Kenny and I were revolutionaries. You and Stan had fun playing along."

She laughs, mock-offended, socking him in the arm. "I can't believe you, Craig Tucker. We were all in it together. We believed in things. We stood for something."

"Yeah, well, at the end of the day, Kenny and I were the ones left holding the banner. We were the ones who stayed."

She sighs. "I miss him, too, you know. We all do."

"Yeah," he whispers.

She scoots closer and rests her head against his arm. They sit like that for a few minutes, not speaking, before her hand begins to migrate downward, over his chest and stomach, finally resting on his crotch. She squeezes gently.

"What the hell are you doing?" he says calmly.

"Picking up where we left off twelve years ago. I need this, Craig."

He pushes her hand away. "No. Not here. Not tonight."

"Why not?" she asks as she sits up. "This will be good for both of us."

"I think it would be too weird, Test."

"But it wouldn't," she says, grabbing his hands. "You know how much I liked you, and I know that those feelings were mutual."

His face flushes red at that. "Maybe for a little while, but I knew we would never work out. You were too ambitious. I was practically aimless by comparison."

She shakes her head. "You always underestimated yourself." She whispers, "If you're not prepared, don't worry. I have condoms."

"I wouldn't need a condom," he says.

"That's kind of risky, don't you think?"

"I mean, I'll use them if it's someone I don't know because of diseases and shit, but I doubt I'd need one with you."

"I don't understand."

"I shoot blanks, Test."

Suddenly Wendy understands, aware that she will have to turn elsewhere for what she is looking for.

* * *

><p>Four hours later, Stan can't sleep. His life remains surrounded by phantoms he can't escape, Kenny only the most recent and perhaps most sobering of them. He creeps from his resting place in the study and finds the house eerily quiet. He walks around, wondering how hard this must be for Kyle and Bebe and Tweek, to be here this weekend and see Kenny everywhere: in a recliner, at the landing on the stairs, in the bathtub. Eventually, he makes his way downstairs and finds Craig staring, wide awake, at the muted television across the room.<p>

"Hey, man, whatcha watching?" Stan asks, plopping on the couch beside him.

"You know," Craig replies vacantly, gesturing toward the glowing screen. "The thing, with the guy."

Stan's eyes dart to the TV and find a notably younger Bruce Willis holding a gun and looking pissed off. Stan cringes, unable to sit comfortably through action films ever since he himself began dabbling in them a couple of years ago. He finds it more embarrassing than anything, reducing himself to mindless drivel when what he really wants is to make serious art. He wonders for a moment if Bruce ever feels the same way. It pays the bills, at least, Stan reasons. When he glances back to Craig, he notices that his friend's eyes are glazed over, and he does not appear to be all there mentally.

"Dude, what are you on?" Stan asks. "I mean, no judging here. I could probably use some of whatever it is myself."

Craig shrugs. "A little of this, little of that. Grandmaster Tucker doesn't share his recipe book."

Stan nods, wondering if it's the drugs talking or if Craig typically speaks in such a bizarre idiom. "I could go for a drink, then," he says. "Wanna grab a beer?"

"A beer, yes," Craig replies slowly. "Beer sounds good right now."

"So this is all pretty sobering," Stan says as they ascend the stairs.

"What is?" Craig asks, following a step behind.

"Everything. Kenny, of course—but not just that. It's also being here, with all of you. I feel like I haven't seen most of you in years."

"That's because you haven't, dude." Craig playfully jogs past him to reach the ground floor first. "But don't feel bad. I haven't, either. I'm not sure that I would want to, really."

"What do you mean?" Stan asks, noticing that Craig is more coherent than he seemed downstairs.

"You and Test are cool, and Kyle and Bebe, I guess. Not the others. Fucking Eric Cartman, man? What a slick, slimy bastard. I mean, you are, too, kind of, Mr. Movie Star. But it's different with you. I know you're a real person under all that money. Not Cartman, though. Jesus."

"What about Clyde?"

"Fucking pussy-whipped loser. I never had much respect for the guy, but come on. That corporate frost queen is too much. I mean, does Clyde even work?"

"He's a stay-at-home dad," Stan says as they cross the living room. "They have twin boys, so I don't think it's exactly a walk in the park."

"Fuck that," Craig begins as he crosses the kitchen threshold, Stan two steps behind. He stops speaking, though, when he sees Red seated at the table, a pour of whiskey at her side and a _Wall Street Journal_ splayed out on in front of her.

"Good evening, gentleman," she says, folding up the paper and motioning for them to sit. "Glad to see I'm not the only insomniac in the house." She seems a bit distracted, and Stan doesn't think she heard their conversation in the living room. He sits in the chair opposite her.

"Anxiety got you, too?" Stan asks Red. "That's what's keeping me up, I think. Everything's just so weird."

She smiles warmly, and it is the first time Stan thinks he has actually seen her humanity. He wonders if maybe he just hasn't been looking for it. Or maybe, he thinks, her guard is down because of the late hour, or maybe the whiskey—or both.

"Oh, no," she replies. "I often have trouble sleeping. Clyde has no idea. It started right after I had the boys, years ago. I assumed it was something postpartum that would naturally go away after a while, but it never did. So two or three nights a week I get up and make myself a drink, or if I'm hungry, a sandwich or scrambled eggs. Usually, that will do the trick. Some nights I feel like reading, though," she says, gesturing toward the _Journal_. "I was considering going back to bed, but it's nice to have some company. Makes me feel less alone in this cold, dead house." She blushes. "Forgive me. Slip of the tongue."

As she talks, Craig grabs the whiskey bottle by the neck from the counter. He doesn't bother with a glass, just takes a gentle swig from the bottle before screwing the lid back on. He sits between Stan and Red and places the bottle among them on the table.

"No worries," Craig says. "There's nothing natural about any of this—not about grieving, and especially not about suicide."

"You don't think grieving's natural?" Red asks, throwing back the last of her pour before helping herself to another.

"Nah. I mean, humans are social animals. I get that. And I understand grieving for a spouse or a parent or something like that. But Kenny? I loved the guy, but I haven't talked to him in probably five years. I wasn't even all that sad when I found out. I'm not sure what compelled me to make the trek out here, honestly."

"Dude, are you serious?" Stan asks.

"I can appreciate that," Red says to Craig, ignoring Stan's interjection. "You grew apart, became different people. It happens. That's life. It doesn't always go how you plan."

Craig snorts. "That must be easy for a hotshot like you to say," he retorts.

Her eyes pierce through him as she downs her whiskey and shoots him a sly grin. "Did you know I'm the youngest executive vice president in Microsoft's history? It's even more impressive because I'm a woman. Even more impressive, I didn't suck a single cock to get where I am. Not that I haven't had to sweat. You have all these big ideas when you're young, and then you find yourself doing things you thought you'd never do, all in the name of success. Ultimately, you set your priorities, and that's how it goes. I wonder if your friend Kenny knew that. If so, he couldn't live with it. I wonder what he expected to get out of this life. He must have had higher expectations than the rest of us, or maybe he was just naïve. Regardless, no one ever said it was going to be fun. At least, no one ever said it to me."

Stan stares at her, unsure what to say. Craig grins and toasts the bottle in her direction before taking a liberal swig. Red stands and nods slightly to each of them.

"Good night, gentlemen. I hope you find what you're looking for this weekend," she says before exiting the kitchen. The room remains silent, and Craig follows not long after. When he's alone again, Stan finally grabs a beer from the fridge and reclaims his seat at the table. As he drinks, he wonders what it is that he's looking for, what it is he's really lost.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading; <em>_I hope you enjoyed Friday! It is my goal to continue to update this story bimonthly, since I imagine the Saturday and Sunday chapters will be relatively the same length as this one._

_In the meantime, I'd love to hear what you think so far. Please leave a review if you are so inclined. I greatly appreciate any and all feedback. _

_Cheers,_

_TEPR_


	3. Saturday

_Hi there! _

_Thanks to everyone who has read and (especially) reviewed so far. Your feedback is what sustains me between chapters, something that has become even clearer to me while writing this story, in which the chapters and periods between updates are longer than I'm accustomed to. That being said, I will now leave you to the next day in our weekend saga and sincerely hope you enjoy it. Here's Saturday. _

_Happy readings!_

_TEPR_

* * *

><p>It's early, and Craig is surprised that anyone else is up this soon after sunrise. As he lies on his back fiddling with the loose muffler on his car, he is startled by a pair of pale legs and quirky running shoes suddenly at his side. His eyes travel up the reddish-brown hairy calves to meet the face attached to them. He is met with a steady grin that towers over him.<p>

"Wanna go for a jog?" Kyle asks, as he begins to run in place.

Craig finds his host's too-early enthusiasm goofy but endearing. He ponders the offer, first studying Kyle's face, then his comically short shorts, then his face again, wondering if maybe he is still asleep and muddling through a bizarre dream.

"Why not," he finally says, accepting Kyle's hand when it is lowered to help him up off the ground. "I look kinda slouchy," he adds, examining his wrinkled jeans, greasy flannel shirt, and well-worn tennis shoes. "I was just planning on working on the car."

"You look fine," Kyle says, taking off down the gravel drive. Craig shrugs and follows. They continue for a couple of blocks, with Craig keeping pace behind Kyle's leisurely jog.

"Sleep well?" Kyle asks as they make their way from the neighborhood of sprawling old houses and well-kept gardens to Beaufort's historic downtown.

"It was an interesting night," Craig replies. "Either I don't remember some of you people very well, or folks are behaving more strangely than they did a decade ago."

"Dare I ask?" Kyle says, grinning mischievously.

Craig shakes his head. "You would have had to have been there."

"Fair enough," Kyle replies, increasing his speed as they circle the corner around an old hardware store.

"Fuck," Craig mutters under his breath as he tries to maintain his more athletic friend's amped-up pace. "Jesus, fuck, I'm out of shape," he says when he finally catches up to Kyle, who has stopped to stretch at a park bench and wait for him to catch up.

"Gotta stay active," Kyle replies, arching his back. "We're getting old, Craig. We have to take care of our bodies."

"Thanks, Dad." He notices Kyle's shoes. "What are you wearing? Is that a moose on the side?"

Kyle beams. "They're my shoes. I mean, I designed them. They're my company's."

"Shoe company? Jesus, Broflovski. I thought you were an accountant or some shit."

"Fuck no, dude. I'm a pretty successful small business owner, if I do say so myself. These puppies are now sold in nine states—and counting."

"Moose shoes?" Craig asks skeptically.

"Don't knock 'em until you try them. And don't dis the moose. It's the state mammal of Alaska and Maine."

Craig just stares at him. "I have no words."

Kyle grins. "Then let's keep jogging." After a couple more blocks, he breaks the silence again. "There's something I need to tell you, dude. Something big."

"Shoot," Craig deadpans.

"It's about my company. You have to keep it a secret. I'm really serious about that. The thing is, we're trading for pretty much nothing now because we're small. But we're about to get bought out by this huge corporation, and our stock prices are going to skyrocket. You catch my drift?"

"Yippee for you," Craig replies coldly. "Another notch in your belt."

Kyle stops walking, causing Craig to follow suit. He is a bit surprised by his friend's asshole response and for a moment tries to remember if he was always like this.

"No, dude," Kyle says. "I'm trying to help you. I want you to use this information to your advantage. You just can't fucking tell anyone, alright? I'd be fucked if the SEC knew we were having this conversation. But you should, you know, invest—while you still can. I can even spot you a little for now, if you want."

Craig shakes his head. "I'm not going to say anything to anyone, Kyle. Who would I tell, anyway? And I don't need your charity, jackass. I'm doing just fine," he says as he begins jogging away from his companion.

"I fucking doubt that," Kyle murmurs as he's left alone on the sidewalk. He remembers now how difficult Craig can be, how defensive. He remembers the last time he saw Craig before this weekend, three years ago when he was on business in Chicago. Craig was wandering around aimlessly, grimy and strung out. Kyle tried to be friendly and offered to buy him a coffee, and after some near-pleading on Kyle's part, Craig accepted. The encounter started awkwardly yet innocuously enough, but once Kyle tried to delve deep, Craig immediately shut down. Small talk failed, so Kyle moved to more serious topics. They discussed Craig's lack of recent success in the workplace, and he was even willing to admit that his depression had driven him to "experiment" with drugs a bit. Kyle did not press that issue further, though he did suggest rehab, which caused Craig to begin laughing maniacally before shouting at Kyle in the coffeehouse and telling him to mind his own fucking business, goddamnit.

Kyle wonders as he continues his jog whether Craig's life has gotten better or worse since that windy afternoon in the Chicago Loop. What has he been doing with himself? Has he even had a real job? Is there anything Kyle and Bebe can do to help him? As he ponders these questions, he opts for breakfast alone at the city diner, where the presence of him in jogging shorts and a t-shirt is no more unusual than it is unwelcome. Margie the septuagenarian waitress brings him a coffee and asks if he'd like the usual, and with that, Kyle's day begins again, this time on a better foot.

Two hours later, the smell of different coffee awakens Eric, who shuffles to the source of the aroma and finds Bebe making herself some eggs. Between her disheveled hair and bathrobe, Eric thinks she must not have been far ahead of him in getting out of bed.

"Are we the first ones up?" he asks, yawning and pouring himself a cup from the fresh pot of coffee.

She snorts. "Hardly. Take a look outside."

He glances at the front lawn and sees Clyde and Stan tossing a football back and forth. Tweek sits on the grass and looks on, slightly bored. Eric's gaze lingers on Tweek for a few seconds before his attentions return to Bebe.

"Did I miss anything interesting this morning?" he asks.

"Just a domestic dispute," Bebe replies, as she and her scrambled eggs join him at the table.

"Oh? Do tell."

"Well, Red and Clyde were supposed to leave this morning. Red insisted they go so that they could relieve the nanny, but Clyde said _no_. He told her he's staying until Monday, so she drove the rental back to Savannah to catch the next flight to Seattle without him."

"Shit. Did they fight? There must have been more to it than that."

Bebe shakes her head. "You're going to have to start getting up earlier if you want to catch the really juicy drama."

* * *

><p>After lunch, Stan rides shotgun in an old Jeep that Kyle bought on a whim at an estate sale two years ago. It's pleasant with the top down. The wind in his face feels good, and it's nice to ride around the streets of this small coastal town, hiding behind his sunglasses in a state of quasi-anonymity where, even if people happen to recognize him, they at least aren't constantly trying to find him. Back in real life, riding around in nature with the top down isn't a thing that happens, but here—his favorite person in the driver's seat and an old friend behind him—things aren't so bad, and in a way, they're kind of perfect. He closes his eyes and lets it all wash over him until the silence is interrupted.<p>

"How far did you say this place was?" Craig pipes up from the backseat.

"Another five miles or so," Kyle replies. "Tweek actually knows the land better than I do. She's been up here more than I have lately."

"Oh, yeah?" Craig asks.

Tweek nods from her seat next to him. "Yeah," she says. "Kenny and I used to come up here a lot."

"They were working on it together," Kyle adds.

"Well, Kenny did most of the work," she says. "I just helped out."

Craig smiles subtly. "That's still something."

Stan continues to sit silently, eyes closed and soaking it in. It is still hard for him to believe that he is here with these people, under these circumstances, marching through the wilderness. It is all so surreal.

When they arrive at the property, Kyle waves grandiosely to show Craig and Stan the expansiveness of it. "It's more than six acres," he says. "Kenny got it for a steal. He and Tweek have made a lot of progress on the old house."

"It still needs a lot of work," Tweek murmurs, trying to figure out what right to any of the remainder of Kenny's life she can genuinely claim. Will she continue to work on the land? Can she? Where will she go once the rest of these strangers have trickled away back to their own lives, and it's all said and done? What will she do then?

Craig approaches the decrepit house alone and studies it intently, looking for the potential in what's before him. Tweek follows sheepishly, lightly placing a hand on Craig's shoulder as they stare together.

"It was the last place we went before we came home that night," she says. "It was his favorite place."

"Can I see it?" Craig whispers.

She nods, and they enter together, leaving Stan and Kyle in the grassy expanse.

"This place is a lot bigger on the inside than it looks from out there," Craig says. "It's nicer, too."

"Yeah," she replies. "Kenny really put his whole self into it. He was like that, you know."

Craig nods. "Oh, I know. We used to be really close. He was the first real friend I made at Boulder. Did you know he's the reason I'm friends with these people? He's the one who introduced me to them. Fuck, Kenny was something else."

Tweek smiles. "You remind me a lot of him, in the good ways."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not him. I would never do something like what he did."

"Kill yourself?"

"Yeah. Never. It's fucked up."

That is all that is said as they continue to explore the rooms, each marveling at the ruins before them.

Outside, Stan and Kyle trudge through the field, the latter giving his best friend an overview of the lay of the land. When they reach the boundary of the property, far enough away from Craig and Tweek and everyone else, Stan decides it's safe to drop his veneer.

"What's your secret, Kyle?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"I just don't know how you do it. You seem so happy all the time, and I don't understand. I mean, I'm not saying you have a bad life. I think you have a great life—that's the point. I thought I knew what I wanted, but I'm fucking miserable, man. Nothing is right."

"Whoa. Where is this coming from? What's wrong, Stan?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I guess I've just realized that this is it, you know? It's as good as it's ever going to get for me, and I hate everything about my life. It's so hard for me to feel connected anymore. I feel like a giant joke, and I have no one but myself to blame."

"You can't think like that, Stan. You bring joy to so many people."

Stan snorts. "Like a circus animal."

"Oh, come on. Don't be so cynical. It may feel like a sacrifice sometimes, but I think that the work you do is really important. You bring smiles to people's faces. You make people happy. In today's shitty world, escapism is a necessary form of entertainment. Good old fashioned mindless fantasy keeps us common folks sane when we need to unplug from the burdens of our daily lives."

"That was really poetic, dude. This is exactly what I meant—you're so fucking wise. Just being around you makes me feel better. I miss you, man. Fuck, I miss conversations like this. There aren't folks like you in Los Angeles. Everyone is so vapid. I miss being around _real_ people."

Kyle grins. "Yeah, well, don't pity yourself too much, Mr. Millionaire. It's not easy for us lowly peasants to empathize with the struggles of our Hollywood overlords."

Stan rolls his eyes. "Yeah, but you _get it_, though. That's why you're the best."

"If it makes you feel any better," Kyle says, "I'd love to be someone else occasionally."

"Why? You've got a great wife, great kids, dream job, two houses."

Kyle sighs, and his voice goes heavy. "Life's imperfections can be really disappointing, though. You understand that."

Stan puts his hands up. "No way, man. Not the Kenny thing again."

"It's selfish, I know, but this weekend is just one harsh, exhausting reminder. It makes me question why I let him stay at our place here, whether I should have allowed it at all. It's hard for me not to dwell on it, Stan. I've always been faithful. I love Bebe, but in some ways, their affair had been going on since Boulder—at least, emotionally."

"Jesus, Kyle, you've gotta be kidding. Bebe chose you, not Kenny. When are you going to get that through your head? You're the one she married. You're the one she loves. People make mistakes sometimes, and it fucking sucks, but that's life."

Kyle shakes his head. "I just don't understand cheating. It makes no logical sense to me."

"You're overthinking this, dude. Just let it wash over you and roll away. It's the only way to deal with it. What happened was years ago. It's over. Bebe moved on, and you have to do the same. If you're half as crazy about her as she is about you—and I know you are—then you two are the best couple I've met in the whole fucking world."

Kyle chuckles. "That's a pretty low bar, admittedly. Our only competition is the scum of Los Angeles."

"Hey," Stan says, patting him on the back, "try to focus on the positive. You're supposed to be good at that, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," Kyle says. "Say, one more thing: what's your shoe size?" Stan tells him _9 ½_, and they set off to round up Tweek and Craig and return to the homestead. During the drive back, they pass Clyde and Eric in Wendy's car, on an important errand from Bebe.

"I fucking hate shopping," Eric says to his friend in the driver's seat. "I always have."

"Then why did you come?" Clyde dryly replies. "I could have gone alone."

"What, and leave me with Bebe and Wendy? No way. I needed to get out of that house, anyway."

Clyde rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, I'm honestly glad you came. I know it sounds kinda weird since I've been surrounded by people the last twenty-four hours, but it's felt pretty lonely since we got here. Maybe it's just because I know Kenny's gone and I'm just sad or something."

Eric rolls his tongue around in his mouth. "Well, Clyde," he says, psychoanalyzing his friend as though he were a guest on a talk show, "sadness is a perfectly natural reaction to what's happened. As for your feelings of loneliness, maybe they can be chalked up to an awareness of your own mortality. Maybe you just realize that at the end of the day, you're all alone in this world, no matter who's at your side." Eric looks to gauge Clyde's reaction when he says that last part, wondering if his friend picks up on the fact that he's talking about his wife.

"Maybe," Clyde responds, largely ignoring the other's commentary. "Honestly, I think part of it is that I feel inadequate."

"How so?" Eric asks, suddenly leaning forward in interest.

"I don't always feel like a real man, you know? I guess sometimes I don't feel like I serve a purpose."

"Tell me more, Clyde."

Clyde knows that Eric can be a pain in the ass sometimes, and he is aware that most of their college friends don't care for him very much, but it is in moments like this that he truly appreciates Eric, who, even after all these years, he still considers his best friend. Clyde sees him for who he really is, and despite his harsh persona, Eric Cartman is actually a good person. He just has a weird way of showing it, Clyde reasons.

"It's just that I'm not getting any younger," he continues. "I thought I would have accomplished more by now. I thought I would have become someone, like you or Stan. Or even just regular-guy successful, like Kyle. But what have I done? I am no closer to a music career than I was in college. If anything, I'm a million miles further away. Sometimes it's hard not to feel like I missed my chance, you know?"

This is the part that Eric's never been good at—the advice part—and he knows it. He suppresses the urge to crack a cheap joke at his friend's expense and instead decides to offer something worthwhile. He considers his response as they pull into the grocery store parking lot. They enter through the produce section and begin tackling Bebe's shopping list in silence, starting with a head of lettuce and three medium tomatoes.

"But you love your family, right?" Eric finally asks as he weighs an eggplant.

"Of course I do," Clyde replies. "My boys are my world. I know how lucky I am not to have to work and that I get to spend my days with them. It's the fucking best sometimes. But then there are days when I feel like I'm lost in someone else's life. I mean, I guess I always saw myself being a dad someday, but it happened so quickly, it's crazy. And I definitely never thought I'd be the one to stay home. I was supposed to be on the road touring, coming home to the family that I was supporting, to my stay-at-home wife. I'll tell you: shit just doesn't go the way you think it will. There are so many days I wish I had your life—no wife, no kids, no baggage. You even live in Manhattan, a real city! There's so much freedom in the bachelor life. I really miss it sometimes, man."

"Hey, Seattle is a real city."

Clyde rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean. It's not New York. You know, the whole reason I went to college in Colorado was so that I could get away from my family, away from Seattle. I never in a million years thought I'd wind up back there. I envy you so much sometimes. There are days when I imagine what you might be doing with all of New York City at your disposal, no one to hold you back or tie you down—a whole world of possibilities."

"Yeah, well," Eric says as they turn into the ethnic foods aisle, "it's not all glitz and glamour and cocktail parties. You're more than welcome to stop in sometime for a peak into my illustrious life of shitty Chinese takeout, Netflix, and rubbing one out when I can't sleep."

Clyde grins. "How cosmopolitan. I bet you only use the finest champagne to jerk yourself off."

Eric laughs. "Jesus. You're fucking gross."

"Not as gross as you. Or, at least, not as wild. I've seen the way you look at Tweek. No one else might have noticed, but I did. To each his own, I guess, but Kenny's barely cold in the ground."

Eric blushes, his embarrassment rendering him momentarily mute. "I wasn't going to do anything," he mumbles. "Unless the opportunity presented itself, that is."

Clyde shakes his head. "You are something else."

"Not that it matters anyway. I'm getting old," Eric says, gesturing to his receding hairline. "Kids like that aren't interested in guys our age anymore."

Clyde laughs. "Speak for yourself."

"Let me guess: all the young MILFs drool over you at the park when you take your kids on playdates because you're the only piece of man meat around. That's such a cliché, Clyde."

"Not exactly." He whispers, "Don't tell anyone, but I've been fucking the boys' nanny Claudia for like eight months now. She's twenty-three, recent college grad. Lives in a guest bedroom in our house. In bed, everything about her is better than Red. She moves different, she tastes different, she fucks different. She's just… awesome."

"Christ, Donovan. The way you're talking, I'd think you have feelings for this girl."

Clyde takes a deep breath. "I'm beginning to think that I do, man. It's starting to feel serious. I'm not sure what to do."

Eric shakes his head and slaps Clyde on the cheek. "Wake up, dumbshit. You have to fire her. It's either goodbye hot nanny or goodbye family. I know how your wife operates. If she found out about this, you'd be fucked."

"Hey! It's not that simple."

"It _is_ that simple. Frame her for stealing some jewelry or cash or something, and kick her to the curb. Somebody's going to have to be a casualty. Might as well be her. Even if you break her heart, she's young. She'll get over it. Just write her a good letter of recommendation, and send her packing."

"Fuck," Clyde whispers. "You know, I thought that you, of all people, would understand where I was coming from. That's why I wanted to tell you first."

"Yeah, and now you know my opinion. I may think with my dick, Clyde, but I have a brain, too, and I know how to use it."

They shuffle silently through the last two aisles—frozen foods—picking up a carton of lime sherbet and a Boston cream pie. Eric breaks the tension as they approach the self-checkout: "Can I ask you a personal question, about Red?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Does the carpet match the drapes?"

Clyde laughs. "You're a fucking asshole."

* * *

><p>While Bebe showers and the others are out of the house, Wendy ponders the immensity of her hosts' sprawling plantation house. How Bebe, Kyle, and their two kids could ever need so much space—in a vacation home, no less!—is something she'll never understand, but then, Wendy has never been one for extravagance. She does not often think about her humble roots in Nowhere, Nebraska, but it's easy to be reminded of them when all these ghosts of her past surround her. It was especially apparent for Wendy in college that she was in the socioeconomic minority in her friend group. After spending a couple of weeks hanging out with Stan and Kyle, who lived across the hall from her in their freshman dorm, she knew that she was different. She hadn't been born in Alaska and spent her formative years at a prestigious boarding school on the other side of the country like Kyle, or been raised by dotcom yuppies in Silicon Valley like Stan. She hadn't been cradled with a silver spoon in the Seattle suburbs like Clyde, or followed the privileged path to med school carved out by her parents like Bebe. She hadn't even had the stability of relatively boring, middle-class normalcy like Eric. Instead, Wendy had forged her own path and now considers herself a rare success story from the remotest regions of the Great Plains.<p>

Of all her friends, Kenny had been the one with whom Wendy always felt the closest connection, even while she was dating Stan. It had never been romantic, but the bond they shared transcended friendship. Wendy had always admired that, like her, Kenny understood the challenges of thriving in a system designed to reward the already privileged and challenge those born into less fortunate circumstances. She was sold on Kenny the day he flipped off an asshole in their freshman philosophy seminar when the guy argued that a progressive tax would place an unfair financial burden on those already paying more than their fair share. Wendy hadn't been sure if Kenny would mesh well with her friends across the hall, but she desperately wanted him to. Kyle had initially been resistant (no surprise there), but Stan, to Wendy's delight, was almost immediately sucked in. He, too, drank the Kenny McCormick Kool-Aid. It wasn't until Kenny brought Craig around that Wendy finally felt like there was someone else in her friend group who understood what it was like to work your way up from nothing. Unfortunately, Wendy thinks, if the weekend so far is any indication, Craig has fallen hard.

Craig. A part of Wendy regrets that she waited until after a few glasses of wine to come onto him last night, that she didn't do it when she was completely in her own mind. But she also knows that it might have been impossible to initiate that sort of conversation sober. She does not at all regret that Craig was her first choice, though. With Kenny gone, Craig is easily the most kindred spirit Wendy has left in this house and perhaps—she is beginning to think—the entire world. As she ponders these things from the seclusion of the kitchen island, staring out onto the empty front lawn, Wendy's thoughts are interrupted by the appearance of Bebe, who prepares herself iced water after her shower.

"Well, look who finally decided to make an appearance," Bebe says, smiling. "Get your work done, I take it?"

"Yeah, sorry about that. I hadn't meant to bury myself in my notes this morning, but it's unavoidable sometimes. By the time I resurfaced, everyone was gone."

"I sent Clyde and Eric to the store. They took your car. I figured you wouldn't mind."

"Of course not."

"And Kyle took the rest out to see Kenny's land."

"What's going to happen with that property, anyway? Kenny didn't have a will, I presume?"

Bebe shakes her head. "Not that any of us are aware of. The whole thing is such a fucking mess. With the funeral yesterday, I haven't had a whole of time to even wrap my head around it all, to be honest." She sighs. "But we'll figure it out. We always do. Then things will be bound to settle back into their regular groove—at least, I hope they do. At this point, I just want the rest of the weekend to go smoothly. I wasn't expecting Clyde and Red's little spat this morning; I'm hoping now that she's gone, everything will be civil. But enough about that. How are _you_? I feel like the two of us haven't had a real conversation since you got here."

"Well, finding the elusive Mr. Right has not gotten any easier. I've had no luck for the last decade, and I've gotten to where I can tell in the first thirty seconds if there's a chance in the world. Of course, there never is."

"Oh, come on. It can't be that bad."

"But it is, Bebe. I swear: they're either married or gay. If it's not that, they've just broken up with a bitch who looks just like me. Or they need more space. Or they can't commit. Or they want to commit, but they're afraid to get close. The ones who want to get close, I don't want to be anywhere near."

Bebe sighs. "Dating can be really tough. You just have to ride it out. It will happen for you eventually, sweetie. I know it will."

Wendy scoffs. "That's easy for you to say. You're married to Kyle, the perfect man. Honestly, I've come to the point where I don't even want a man anymore. It's not even that the ship has sailed. I'm just done."

"So… what? You're becoming a lesbian? Joining a convent?"

"Ha! Maybe if I'm pushed past the brink of sanity. Honestly, what I really want, what I've known for my entire life, is that I want to be a mother. My biological clock's ticking, and I'm not sure how much longer I have."

"You can't be serious, Wendy. You're thirty-four."

"I know, but my mother went through early menopause, and so did her mother. Genetics are believed to be a factor. I can't take the risk, Bebe."

"So, what's the plan, then?"

"I'm going to have a baby."

"Who's the father?"

"I'm hoping to have that hammered out by tomorrow night."

Bebe's eyes go wide. "You're on the prowl this weekend?"

"I don't see why not. These are the best guys I know."

Bebe laughs. "Holy shit. That's crazy. I can't believe it. I mean, I'm really happy for you. It's just nuts. Who's the top prospect?"

"Don't laugh, but unfortunately, I discovered last night that Craig shoots blanks. Beyond that, Clyde and Kyle are out, obviously."

"Obviously why?" Bebe asks.

Wendy looks at her incredulously. "Well, while Clyde is attractive, he's also awfully dim. But also, more importantly, because they're both married. Bebe, I would never ask that of you or Kyle. You should know that."

"That leaves you with Stan and Eric, I suppose."

"Not Eric Cartman in a million years. Gross. I was hoping I wouldn't have to resort to Stan because of our history, but honestly, I don't see another option at this point."

Bebe shakes her head. "But you do have another option, sweetie. Wait, and think it out. Visit sperm banks. Mull it over."

"No, Bebe. I've spent months considering this. I've done my research. I'm ready. I just have to get some alone time with Stan tonight, and I'll be set."

"I don't think it's going to be that simple."

"Why not? There are no obligations. I love him as a friend, and I assume he loves me in the same way. I know he'd do pretty much anything for me."

"_Pretty much_ anything. Besides that, have you considered that it doesn't always happen the first time?"

Wendy scoffs. "That's not what they told us in high school."

* * *

><p>Dinner tonight, Tweek realizes, is the first time she has seen all of them together in one room. Since the funeral, she has observed them in various public and private moments, often when they know she is there, but sometimes not. She was awake before anyone else this morning, though she did not stir until Craig wandered out to work on his car. Not long after Kyle left in his tiny jogging shorts, Tweek was greeted by the sight of an irritated and possibly hungover Red dragging her overnight bag to her rental. They did not speak, but Red's eyes told Tweek all she needed to know—not that Tweek didn't already have a general idea. The walls were thin enough, and the words Red exchanged with her husband in the early morning hours were not exactly whispered. She called him an <em>infant<em>, and he called her a _cunt_. It wasn't until Tweek sat on the lawn watching Clyde play football with Stan Marsh—Stan Marsh!—that she realized that maybe both of them were right, but maybe they were also wrong. Red isn't the friendliest person, but Tweek admires her tenacity. As for Clyde, he's kind of immature for someone so old, she supposes, but he is sort of cute in a dorky way, and that makes up for it at least a little bit. Tweek has only known most of these people a little over twenty-four hours, but that is long enough to know that she prefers them when they are happy—even Eric, whose gaze sometimes creeps her out. The attention is nice, and kind of surreal, but he's definitely not her type.

Having no idea what the future will hold, Tweek chooses to focus on what's left of the weekend and hopes she can continue to enjoy herself with these interesting, odd people who Kenny has caused to swoop in and temporarily surround her. Seeing them all together like this, it is easy enough to imagine what they might have been like in college, with Kenny among them. She imagines Bebe subtly flirting with Kenny when Kyle is not looking, a premonition for their affair years down the line. She imagines Kenny cordially making fun of Stan for dabbling in stand-up comedy. (Craig and Wendy, Kenny told her, supported Stan during this endeavor and even attended his performances. Kenny refused, even when the shows were free admission, on the grounds that he found the whole thing too depressing.) She imagines him playing tennis with Kyle, whose genuine niceness fascinated Kenny and whom he affectionately called "Einstein" for always being the smartest guy in the room. She imagines him and Wendy at a party, making fun of Clyde and Eric as they split a cheap bottle of white wine, their stage whispers morphing into obnoxious cackles as the night wanes on. She imagines him with Craig, who Kenny told her on several occasions was his best friend, even to this day, though the two of them had not been close in several years. With the exception of Kyle and Bebe, everything Tweek knew about these people before yesterday she knew from Kenny, whose stories largely support but sometimes contradict what Tweek is experiencing this weekend. More than anyone, it is Craig—about whom Kenny told her the most—who has been the focus of Tweek's attention. There is something about him that reminds her of Kenny, despite Craig's assurances to the contrary at the property today. Perhaps not surprisingly, it is Craig's voice that jolts Tweek out of her own thoughts and back to the dinner table.

"You know," he says to Bebe, grinning mischievously, "you and Kyle put on a great funeral. The weekend B&B for the houseguests is a nice touch. I might just have to have mine here." At that, Eric lets out a snort, and Clyde guffaws. Tweek notices that he, like most everyone else, has already had quite a bit to drink.

"Yeah, well," Bebe replies, "we reserve first priority for people who kill themselves in one of our bathrooms." She pauses and looks around the room for a moment. "God, that was a terrible thing to say. I have no idea why I said that. I think I've had enough," she says, pushing her nearly empty wineglass away from her. Kyle leans over and kisses her forehead before taking her hand in his under the table.

"Don't feel bad, Bebe. Everything about this is hard," Wendy says.

"Yeah," Stan adds. "And we're all really grateful for what you and Kyle have done. I know Kenny would be, too."

"Thank you," Bebe whispers.

"It was so lovely," Wendy continues. "Kyle's speech, Clyde's singing, the food. There were so many people. You know, I'd be lucky to get half that many people to my funeral."

"Don't say that, Test," Craig says, standing. He walks behind her and hugs her through the chair. "I'll come, and, you know, I'll even bring a date." At that she laughs, and so does just about everyone else.

Not long after, Stan rises and announces to the room that he is going to retire for the evening. Kyle leaves to do the dishes, and Wendy offers to help.

"They can have the dishes," Bebe says to the rest of the room, grinning. "I have something that will help us unwind," she adds mischievously.

"Oh, really now?" Craig asks, suddenly intrigued.

"Well," she replies, standing and grabbing Tweek's hand, "I may not be able to keep up with you, Mr. Tucker, but you should know I still appreciate the finer things in life once in a while." She leads Tweek into the living room, and the others follow—Craig and Eric and Clyde—and settle into their spots on the couches and chairs. Bebe retrieves her stash in a small, unassuming box from the lower shelf of a nearby bookcase.

"Would you like to do the honors, Clyde?" she asks, handing him the box. "As I recall, you always appreciated good grass."

"Still do," he says, grinning. He inhales as he rolls a joint. "Ah, yes. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, huh, Doc?"

Bebe blushes. "Consider it a prescription for a good time. But don't forget to follow doctor/patient confidentiality."

They smoke for a while. They laugh. Kyle finishes the dishes and joins them, reporting that Wendy has gone to bed. Not long after Clyde rolls a second joint, Craig announces that he needs a proper cigarette, and Tweek elects to step out with him for some air. As he lights the second joint, Clyde smiles at the sight of Bebe and Kyle curled up together on the couch.

"You two are fucking adorable, you know that?" he says. "Also, no offense, but there's nothing hotter than a fine lady who likes to smoke weed," he adds, nodding to Bebe. At that, Bebe and Kyle begin cackling.

"Jesus, Clyde," Eric says, shaking his head and stealing the joint from him. "Control yourself, man. Doesn't Red ever let you smoke, or is the leash not long enough for that?"

Clyde flicks him off casually, grabbing the joint back once his friend has had a go. "She turns a blind eye. Doesn't really care, I guess, but she doesn't partake herself."

"That's too bad," Kyle says, grinning. "It might mellow her out some."

"I bet I know who likes to smoke with you in that house," Eric adds, suggestively wiggling his eyebrows.

"Who?" Kyle asks, leaning forward.

"No one," Clyde replies quickly, kicking Eric. "Jesus, asshole."

Eric throws up his hands. "Sorry, sorry. I won't air your dirty laundry if you don't want me to."

At that, Kyle and Bebe exchange a glance. She shrugs, and he nuzzles his face into her neck in high, drunken bliss.

"What about you?" Bebe asks Eric, changing the subject. "Do you ever want to get married, or do you enjoy perpetual bachelorhood?"

"Fuck that," he replies quickly. "Marriage is for the birds. I'll take my freedom any day."

"You mean you don't ever imagine what it's like to have a family?" Kyle asks.

"Oh, sure. I've imagined it—only one woman for the rest of my life, changing shitty diapers, having to leave the city and move to Kansas or some shit. No thanks. Sounds like a nightmare to me."

Kyle rolls his eyes. "We live in Missouri, not Kansas, and St. Louis is hardly a hick town."

"Or even worse," Eric continues, ignoring Kyle's interjection, "I might have to move back to Denver. Nothing worse than having to go back to your roots when all you want is a little piece of freedom," he adds, glancing at Clyde.

"God, you're a dick," Clyde snaps, and the room goes quiet. As the four of them burn down the second joint in silence, an equally awkward scene begins to unfold in the study.

Why Wendy doesn't knock, she isn't sure. Perhaps it's because, in a way, she still feels as relaxed and comfortable around Stan now as she did when they were dating. Even though years have passed since their breakup, it is not difficult for her to feel that little has changed between them. Despite rarely seeing one another and living thousands of miles apart, Wendy still feels a deep connection to Stan. Or, at least, that's what she thinks to reassure herself that asking him to impregnate her is a good idea. Regardless, Wendy is so lost in her thoughts that the last thing she expects to see when she opens the door is Stan sprawled out on the futon, cock in hand as he peruses pornography on his phone.

"Holy shit!" he shouts, pulling a blanket over his crotch. "Close the door, Wendy. Jesus."

She does. "I can leave and come back," she says.

"No, that's fine. Just, uh, turn around. I need to get decent."

"Sure thing." She grins as she turns her back to him. She has seen Stan naked hundreds of times, though not in several years, and is amused by his sense of quasi-modesty in this moment. She chalks it up to nerves and being caught red-handed. His cock is just as she remembers it, and so is the rest of his body, largely, though things have begun to sag a tad, and he has lost a bit of the natural definition he had when they were younger. She supposes he will have a similar thought about her if he sees her naked tonight.

"Okay, the coast is clear," he says, standing. "Trouble sleeping?"

"No," she replies, deciding to be more direct than she had been with Craig last night. "I have a favor to ask, a personal favor." She moves toward him, perching on one end of the futon, and he takes a place at her opposite, sitting cross-legged and giving her his full attention. She tells him that she wants to have a baby and, after careful deliberation, would like him to be the sperm donor.

"You want me to _what_?!" he whispers, his eyes widening.

"I know it sounds like a big deal," she quickly replies, drawing for her repertoire of pre-rehearsed responses, "but there would be no obligation. You know that, Stan."

He shakes his head. "There's no way, Wendy. I couldn't. If word ever got out, the tabloids would blow it all out of proportion."

"Seriously? You think I wouldn't protect you?" She scoffs, realizing how offended she is by this. "You think… what? That I would somehow use this against you? I may be a lot of things, but I'm not petty, Stan."

"Christ, Wendy, no. I don't mean that. I'm just thinking, what if he grows up and wants to know who his father is? Say he's twelve years old and is dying to know, and you just don't have it in you to be dishonest with him anymore. That's a perfectly natural reaction. So you tell him, and word travels like wildfire at his school, then through the whole city, and then the world."

She laughs. "You're so dramatic, Stan. I promise I would keep it a secret. Besides, do you really think you're going to be headline fodder in thirteen years? You'll be an old man by movie star standards."

"Ouch," he says, mock-offended. "Is that what you call a seduction technique?"

"It was a bit harsh, wasn't it?" She smiles. "I'm sorry. I know it sounds weird, but I really do want this."

"Then why don't you go to a sperm bank? If it's about money, I'd be happy to spot you."

She shakes her head. "It's not that. If I was worried about money, I wouldn't be trying to start a family. I don't want some random guy's sperm. I want it to be a guy I know, a guy I trust. I want it to be you."

He stares at her for a long, quiet minute before finally apologizing and saying that he can't, that it would be too weird, even if he didn't have a celebrity image to maintain. She can tell when he says it this time that he means it. With that, she is as certain as he is that she will not be having Stan Marsh's child.

* * *

><p>Downstairs in Tweek's room, the first thing Craig notices is Kenny's old guitar. When he had stepped out to smoke earlier, it had largely been to clear his head, to get away from the others. The idea of someone tagging along defeated the purpose in Craig's mind, but he supposes there are worse smoke buddies than Tweek. After all, she never says much, and she lacks many of the irritating qualities he finds in the likes of Clyde and Eric.<p>

"I think I'm done," he says to her when he finishes his cigarette. "I've had enough drinking and laughing and fun for one night."

"Me, too," she says sheepishly.

When they reach the basement, she lingers for a moment in the common area and asks if he'd like to see her and Kenny's room. Compelled as if by something outside himself, Craig says _yes_, and the first thing he notices is the guitar.

"I can't believe he still has that thing," he says. "Kenny used to love to play—the old stuff, especially. He was pretty good, too."

Tweek nods in agreement. She slinks to the floor in front of the bed, and Craig sits beside her.

"Tell me something about yourself," she says after a moment.

"What do you want to know?"

"I don't know. I guess… just more about your life, and about them," she says, nodding in the direction of upstairs. "You're all so interesting. I want to know more about you. It sounds weird, but I have this feeling that you're all going to vanish in a couple of days, and I'll never see or hear from any of you again. I mean, I guess I know that's true. Besides Kyle and Bebe, why would I see any of you again? Your lives are in other places. I don't know. It's just so hard making friends, you know?"

Craig looks at Tweek and sees how nervous she is. He nods. "I know." He glances up at the ceiling and lets out a slow breath. "Can I tell you about my first job after college?"

She smiles. "Yeah, okay."

"After we graduated, I was living with Kenny. We didn't do much for a few months. Just kinda fucked around, eating up the last of our student loan money and doing the bare minimum to pay the bills. Everyone else was working or had gone off to grad school or moved back in with their folks, but we stuck it out renting a shitty, cheap little house two miles from campus. Just us and Esmeralda the Guatemalan exchange student. She and Kenny used to do yoga, get stoned, and make sopapillas together. It was like their ritual. It sucked when she dropped out of school and got deported. The day the sopapillas stopped frying was a sad one indeed. Not long after that, Eric Cartman, of all fucking people, called me up one day and said there was an opening at a public radio station where he did freelance reporting. They were looking for a part-time DJ, and he had apparently mentioned to the station manager that I hosted a weekly call-in show on campus sophomore year. Anyway, this station gig was graveyard shift, but I figured why not. It beat flipping burgers and mopping floors. I hit it off with the station manager, and after a few months, they made me full-time. When a staff reporter position opened up, I convinced him to hire Eric. It was the first and last nice thing I do for that jackass. Not even six months later, the asshole walked out on us for a 'better opportunity' with a TV station in Colorado Springs. Fucker left us high and dry one day to go read headlines to Bible beaters. Then, of course, he eventually made the jump to tabloid entertainment bullshit. Disgusting."

"You have to admit, he's really successful," Tweek says. "I mean, sure it's exploitative, but he's doing better than if he had stayed at the radio station."

Craig mulls it over for a moment. "I guess I just resented him for being a sellout. He always thought he was hot shit, even back then."

"What about you? How long did you stay in radio?" Tweek asks.

Craig sighs. "That's the thing. When I was working at the station, I started to get annoyed with Kenny. He kept dragging his feet and never wanted to find a job. We went through a series of disastrous roommates, and one day I finally called it quits. I backed out when it came time to renew our lease and made him fend for himself. I was making enough money to live on my own and was too annoyed by how lazy he was to offer to let him stay with me. It was a dick move. Anyway, that's when he told me how much of a sellout I had become. Kenny saying that shook me to the core, so much so that I quit the station the next day. Luckily, I had enough savings to keep me afloat until I got my bearings again. I eventually made good with Kenny, but it was never the same after that. We were never as close."

Tweek nods. "Have you ever been married?" she asks, changing the subject.

Craig laughs. "Yeah, once, actually. Met when I went back for my master's a couple of years later. She was finishing her PhD. We both came _this close_ to graduating. She was ABD, and I just lost interest. We had good times. Got married after about a year. Stayed together for less than two. It could've worked, maybe, but I got depressed. It's around that time I started spiraling and first went to rehab. It didn't help, though. Things just kept going south. One day she told me that she had had an epiphany: she couldn't save me, but she was going to save herself. I couldn't blame her."

"I'm so sorry, Craig," Tweek says, grabbing his hand gently.

"No reason to be," he replies, pulling his hand back slowly. "We keep in contact, sort of. She married a professor at Georgetown. Doing much better now than if she'd stayed with me. I'm happy for her, honestly. She's a good person. Good people deserve to be happy." As he talks, Craig begins to absentmindedly pluck at the strings on Kenny's guitar. He feels weird about opening up to Tweek. He barely knows her, and he normally doesn't like talking about his personal life with anyone, let alone a perfect stranger.

"Can you play something?" she asks after a moment.

Craig shakes his head. "Nah. Music was always Kenny and Clyde's thing."

"But you know how to play?"

"Not well," he says, putting down the guitar. "What about you?" he asks, changing the subject. "Tell me about yourself. You must be more interesting than me."

"I doubt that," she says. "What do you want to know?"

He ponders the question. "You seem very confident for someone your age—in your identity, I mean. How old were you when you knew you were trans? If you don't mind me asking."

"I figured it out when I was around fourteen," she says. "I mean, when I was a kid, I knew there was something different about me. I wasn't, like, a stereotypical princess boy or anything like that. I just knew I had a lot in common with my sister, more than you can know when you're just a child. She was my best friend, six years older—my half-sister. She got sick when I was sixteen. It was this crazy, rare form of cancer, and when we found out, the doctors said she wouldn't last long. I knew I had to tell her who I really was before she died. I wanted her to meet the real me, and so she did. She told me she loved me, of course, and that she thought I was special. That meant a lot to me. When she died, I realized just how short life can be. That's when I knew that I was going to live my life the way I wanted. So I told my parents, and they didn't react well at all. I got kicked out and had to move in with my grandparents. My grandpa had pretty bad dementia, so when my grandma died, my parents put him in a home. I was eighteen by that point, so I was no longer their problem. I've been flying solo ever since, but I have an aunt and uncle who look out for me. They're the reason I was able to afford hormones last year."

"Could you live with them, if you had to?"

"Oh, sure, I suppose. I'm kind of enjoying wandering for now, though, you know? Besides, they live in Winnipeg, so before I ship off to Canada, I have to make it to the Grand Canyon. It was my sister's favorite place, and that's where she wanted her ashes spread. I just haven't made it out there yet."

Craig nods. "I see. Do you know the singer Sufjan Stevens?" he asks.

She shakes her head _no_.

"I met him when I lived in Michigan," he continues. "Pretty cool guy. We actually used to hang out some before he got famous. One of my favorite songs by him is about someone who dies of cancer. I thought you might know it, but I guess not."

Tweek's eyes shoot to the guitar. "Do you know how to play it?" she asks.

Craig begins to protest but then sees the look in her eyes and decides he owes this one to her. He sighs.

"Feel free to stop me at any time if it's terrible," he says, picking up the guitar. He hums a few bars and plays some notes to warm up. He introduces the song, "Casimir Pulaski Day", before he plays it. Tweek listens intently as he strums and sings, leaning in as Craig's soft voice and Kenny's ancient guitar fill the room for several minutes. Tweek finds herself on the verge of tears when he finishes but remains composed.

"It was really beautiful," she whispers. "Thank you."

They sit in silence together until Craig looks at the alarm clock on the bureau and sees how late it's gotten. He squeezes her hand, smiling gently as he does. He rises and tells her _goodnight_ before disappearing through the door, retreating to his own private corner of the basement. He is lulled to sleep by the great silence that eclipses the room. It fills the air and weighs him down, tucking him into the refuge of the stained sofa cushions and stale patchwork quilts that tonight he calls home.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading! <em>_As always, I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd love to hear what you think so far. Please leave a review if you are so inclined. I greatly appreciate any and all feedback._

_Cheers (and Happy New Year),  
><em>

_TEPR_


	4. Sunday

_Hi there! _

_How many existential crises does it take to get to the center of a disillusioned octet? If you've ever asked yourself this question (surely you have!), then this is the story for you. On that note, this chapter is definitely the Big Chill-iest one so far, which is appropriate since all that's left after this is the epilogue. Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed up to now. I hope you enjoy Sunday._

_Happy readings!_

_TEPR_

* * *

><p>To Clyde's surprise, they are green as a Douglas fir. He is suddenly aware that he has never owned green shoes before and is not sure how he feels about this pair. They are a nice gesture if nothing else, he reasons. As one of the first ones up this morning, Clyde discovers the shoes on the kitchen table. There are six pairs—one for each houseguest, plus Tweek—with their names scribbled on the sides of their respective boxes in black marker. Clyde briefly considers peering into another box to see if Kyle ordered everyone a pair of green shoes, or if perhaps the footwear entrepreneur simply does not know his taste. He looks into Stan's box and finds it empty. He shrugs and puts his own shoes on, amused by the logo: the words <em>Alaskan Maine<em> hovering over a moose that is simultaneously majestic and cartoonish. The latter, Clyde decides, can mostly be attributed to the fact that the moose itself is wearing two pairs of _Alaskan Maine_ running shoes on its hooves. He wonders if the animated moose on this moose's shoes having moose on their shoes, or if they're wearing shoes at all. He wonders for a moment if the moose on the side of his box go on for eternity, a never-ending string of self-producing logos. Clyde's deep thoughts are interrupted by Kyle, who appears at the kitchen door with a big grin on his face as his friend laces up.

"How do they feel?" Kyle asks, propping against the counter as he stretches. Clyde wonders if Kyle's shorts are always so short when he runs.

Clyde stands and walks purposefully around the kitchen. "Surprisingly comfortable," he replies.

"They look good on you," Kyle says. "Wanna go jogging with us? You might as well. You're wearing the appropriate footwear."

"Us?" Clyde asks.

Stan shuffles in wearing his own orange-and-white patterned running shoes. He is disappointed to see that there is not a pot of coffee waiting on him. Clyde can see that Stan has resigned himself to this atypical morning run, no doubt having been coerced into it by Kyle's relentless enthusiasm. Stan's shoes remind Clyde of a Creamsicle, and he decides that, if the footwear Kyle designs is any indication, then he is perhaps just a little bit insane.

Ultimately, Clyde joins them on their jog, unable to contrive a good reason not to do so. As they move, they discuss little of importance—mostly work. Kyle does most of the talking, and Clyde does the least, lost in his thoughts. Clyde had always enjoyed Stan's company, and though he knew it was silly, a part of him had always been jealous of Kyle back in college. Clyde was a weird kid and had few friends growing up, despite his better-than-average looks and what he considered a sharp sense of humor. It seemed like all of the other guys who did theater in high school were gay, and though he had no problem with that, Clyde could never relate to them or their boy troubles. When he met Eric in college, Clyde knew he had finally found another guy he could relate to, and he loved that. The only problem, of course, was that Eric is kind of an asshole. When Stan started hanging out with the two of them, Clyde had hoped he could shed the weight of Eric and be absorbed into Stan's other friend group, with Kyle and Wendy and all the rest. But he felt like an outsider with that group. He and Eric were always the ones relegated to the margins, and Clyde was never sure if any of them even liked him, other than Stan and Kenny.

Kenny. As he remembers his now deceased friend, Clyde drifts back to the present conversation between Kyle and Stan, in which the former is trying to convince the latter that a two-mile run each morning is just the ticket to getting out of his depressive slump.

"Why do you think Kenny did it?" Clyde suddenly asks when the conversation slows. "I mean, what the fuck? Wasn't he happy?"

"I don't know that he was ever truly happy," Kyle says, shaking his head. "I thought he was in a good place mentally—here, with Tweek and the land. He was always so unpredictable, though."

"How do you mean?" Clyde asks.

"Honestly," Kyle replies, "Bebe and I didn't know how he long he'd be here. At first he told us he just needed a place to crash for a couple of weeks while he figured some things out. We knew that wouldn't be the case but didn't see any harm in letting him stay here. We were caught off-guard the day we discovered Tweek living with him, but by that point, nothing was a surprise with him anymore. I never knew when I'd pop in for a visit whether he'd still be here. He once tried building a woodshed in the backyard. He said it was a gift for us for letting him stay there, but who's to say? For all I know, he was building it for some other strange purpose."

"Or maybe he was just building it for the hell of it," Stan chimes in. "Remember that movie review for the campus newspaper?"

"Oh, yeah!" Clyde says. "The stupid time travel movie."

"I don't remember this," Kyle says.

Stan grins. "It was this shitty sci-fi movie about how time is relative, and the twist at the end was that the entire story had been told in reverse. Kenny was so mad that he wrote his review backwards. I'll never forget the first sentence: _Stupid fucking is movie this_. That was the one that got him fired."

"I didn't know Kenny wrote for the newspaper," Kyle says.

"Probably because you never read it," Stan says. "You said the campus newspaper was a waste of time and money and just a way for the journalism students to feel like productive members of society. Cartman was so pissed at you for that one."

"I guess I was kind of pretentious back then."

"And a snob," Stan adds.

Kyle blushes. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I was a dick in college."

Stan chuckles. "We all were, I think."

There is silence for a few seconds before Clyde speaks up again. "I was just thinking about Kenny again. I figure he must have felt like he was missing something in life. I just don't know what. He was so free, and it sounds like he was happy with Tweek. They had their land together. I don't get it."

"I don't know about Kenny," Kyle says, "but I've felt grounded by my family these last few years. Bebe and Sophie and Xavier are what make me happy. I wonder sometimes what it would be like for me if I didn't have them. I wonder if I would be half as happy as I am now. I know my work alone doesn't cut it. But I don't think that would have worked for Kenny. He was always such a loner. He was everyone's friend, but I don't know if he ever let anyone in."

Clyde nods. "That makes sense. I don't know if family is enough for anyone, though. Sometimes it's hard not to miss that freedom. I love my boys, but sometimes they're like a weight, you know? They're so awesome, and I would never give them up, but when I dwell on the thought for too long, I know that I want more out of life. I know that I can have more. I just have to wait for them to leave the nest."

Kyle considers probing further but decides against it. "It's important that you do right for yourself," he says, "but it's more important that you do right for your kids, since they depend on you." Kyle glances at Clyde, who is looking around curiously. It takes them a moment to realize that Stan has stopped running and is half a block behind them, leaning against a building for support. When they reach him, Kyle looks past his best friend's glazed eyes and sees that something is wrong.

"Dude, are you okay?" Kyle asks, putting an arm around his shoulder.

Stan takes a deep breath and shakes his head. He exhales slowly, successfully fighting off a batch of tears. Kyle shoots Clyde a look that asks him to give them a moment in private. Clyde nods, telling them he's going to head back to the house, that he knows the way. When Clyde's gone, Stan does his best to choke back tears, this time not as successful.

"Hey, it's alright," Kyle says. "Let's take a walk. I know a place we can talk in private." He leads Stan around the block to a small park, and they stroll to a bench that is far away from everything else.

When they sit, Stan takes another deep breath, and after a minute, he says, "I have a daughter."

Kyle experiences a rare moment of speechlessness as he stares at his friend. He stutters momentarily before successfully articulating a _Dude, what?_

Stan tells Kyle about Miranda, who just celebrated her fourth birthday last month. He tells him about Stephanie, the aspiring actress he met and knocked up at a party. He answers Kyle's questions as they come. He tells him that no, Stephanie has never once threatened to blackmail him and use his celebrity against him. He tells him that of course he gives her money—every month— because how could he not? He tells his friend that he and Miranda have a relationship but that she doesn't know he is her father. He wants to keep that part a secret, and Stephanie agreed that that was fine. That's what he used to want, at least. Now he is beginning to think that he wants to play a more active role in her life, but he knows he won't be able to un-spill the beans if he has regrets. He tells Kyle that he doesn't know what to do.

Kyle tells him that it will be okay and that he will figure it out. He tells him that Miranda is fortunate to have him as a father, whether she knows it or not. He tells him to follow his gut and that he will know when he's ready. Kyle tells him these things because they are what he is supposed to say, because there is nothing else he can say.

While Stan and Kyle chat, Clyde makes his way back to the sprawling clapboard house he has elected to call home for the weekend, far from his kids and his wife and his life. When he enters the kitchen, there is a silent tension in the air. Bebe sits at the table with Wendy, the latter fingering the new running shoes in her hands, clearly more focused on ignoring Eric, who watches them from the corner of the room awkwardly, silently fuming as he stirs his coffee. What Clyde doesn't know is that five minutes prior, when Eric entered the kitchen, he walked headfirst into a conversation about Wendy's plans for weekend insemination. From the hallway, he had heard Wendy discussing her failed attempts with Stan and Craig—Seriously, Craig? Fucking _Craig_?!—before bemoaning the fact that her options were looking pretty limited at this point. It was during this last sentence that Eric strolled into the kitchen, causing Wendy to stop speaking abruptly and change the subject.

"I couldn't help but overhear that you were looking for a little… help," he said as he poured a cup of coffee, placing deliberate emphasis on the final word. Wendy initially chose to ignore this remark, but when she did, he, of course, pressed her. "Perhaps I can be of service, Wendy. I am quite skilled at... certain things," he said, his pause for dramatic emphasis sounding more ridiculous than obnoxious.

"No thanks, Eric," Wendy replied, rolling her eyes.

Bebe sensed an argument on the horizon. "Maybe you could give us just a few minutes," she said to Eric, trying to avoid confrontation. It was simply too early in the morning for this.

"No, he can stay," Wendy quickly replied. "He's harmless. He just needs to mind his own business, that's all."

Eric glared at her as he poured cream into his coffee, walking across the room and realizing as he did that there was nowhere over there for him to sit. Not wanting to look like a fool or a pussy, he elected neither to join them at the table nor leave the kitchen. Instead, he stood in the corner, annoyed, his eyes piercing Wendy as he stirred his coffee for an unnecessarily long time.

It is during this time that Clyde stumbles in. "Stan and Kyle will be back in a bit," he says to break the silence. He does not know this for a fact, but he feels he needs to say something. "They decided to go on a while longer."

"Couldn't handle a little exercise, Clyde?" Eric asks spitefully, not breaking his stare.

"Made it further than you would have, you fat fuck," Clyde replies casually, grabbing a seat at the table. He looks at Wendy, who still studies her new shoes silently, and then to Bebe, whose eyes seem thankful for someone new in the room. "Where's Craig?" he asks her, for the sake of conversation. "I saw his car's gone."

"No idea," she says. "He and Tweek are MIA. Probably went to see the land again."

"I see," he says. They sit in silence for a while before Wendy finally excuses herself to shower. Once she's been gone thirty seconds, Eric decides he's waited long enough to make his point, leaving the kitchen without a word. When they're alone together, Bebe and Clyde exchange a glance before laughing hysterically, stifling their giggles as best they can.

* * *

><p>"I wonder where they are," Bebe says between bites of celery from a rocking chair on her front porch. The vegetable doubles as a stirrer for her Bloody Mary.<p>

"Craig's car might have broken down," Wendy says as she sips her tea.

"Oh, but surely one of them would have called." Bebe stands and walks to the edge of the porch, peering down the street, as if they might be there. "It seems sort of tacky—them just vanishing. They could have at least mentioned where they were going."

"Don't you think you're hovering a bit? They're adults. _She's_ an adult, if that's what you're worried about."

Bebe sighs as she returns to her chair. "I don't know. It's just that Craig can be such a loose cannon sometimes."

Wendy nods. "This is true."

The screen door creaks open, and Kyle appears behind them. "The big game's in five," he says as he rubs Bebe's back. He leans in for a kiss. "Don't want to miss it, do you? Go Buffaloes!"

Bebe cocks an eyebrow at Wendy and then smiles back at her husband. "I think we're good. Thanks."

"Suit yourself!" Kyle replies as he jogs back into the house. Bebe notices that he is wearing a fan jersey from their alma mater.

"I always hated football," she says. "I was always amused at how much it engrossed the boys—well, most of them. Kenny seemed as bored by it as I was. I always found that refreshing."

"Yeah," Wendy adds, "Craig hates it, too. No doubt he'd be bitching and moaning if he was here. One time he and Kenny loudly played records for hours on end just to piss off the others while they watched the game. They were all half-drunk, so they didn't really care, but it was funny. I camped out in there with them, and we got so stoned while the music blasted. Good times. I don't know where you were."

"Studying, probably." Bebe rolls her eyes. "I was far too serious back in school. I'm glad I lightened up."

Wendy smiles. "So am I."

They retreat inside to rinse their glasses. Bebe chases her Bloody Mary with water while Wendy builds a house of cards on the kitchen table. The latter turns on NPR to drown out the sound of televised football in the next room. Bebe walks upstairs to fetch her tablet, pausing on the way back to linger in the living room, where four sets of eyes are fixed on the TV. She is amused by their arrangement: Clyde and Eric on the couch, Stan and Kyle on the love seat. At the end of the day, she muses, men are just overgrown boys. Some things never change.

When she returns to the kitchen, Bebe pauses by the window, peering outside once more, beyond the lawn and into the street, to see if maybe there is a sign of life. But there is not. She goes to the radio and changes the station.

"I'm sorry, Wendy, but the talk radio is killing me." She lands on an "oldies" alt rock station that is playing Nirvana. She debates how she feels about the music of the '90s being "old" now. A part of her hates it, of course, but another part can't help but feel accomplished, amazed by the fact that she's made it this far and lasted this long.

When the men begin shuffling in for more beer and Doritos, Wendy knows it must be half-time. Inevitably, while Bebe is away starting a load of laundry and after the others have come and gone, Eric pops in a couple of minutes before the third quarter starts.

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior this morning," he says. "It was really insensitive of me."

"Don't worry about it," Wendy says, not looking up from her nineteenth attempt at a card house. "We both acted like assholes." She says this, of course, not because she believes it to be true but because she wants to devote as little time over the rest of the weekend to speaking to Eric as humanly possible. Avoiding confrontation, she reasons, is probably her best course of action henceforth.

"I know how hard this all must be for you," he continues, laying on the sympathy pretty thickly. "It's almost tragic: a woman on a ticking clock who wants more than anything to have a baby, but every time she tries, it doesn't work out. I hate to see you suffer like that, Wendy, and I want you to know that I'm still willing to 'help out' if you want to reconsider my offer from earlier."

Her hands stop building, and she assassinates him with her eyes. "Are you serious right now?"

"Dead serious," he says, walking closer. "You have a demand, and I have the supply that you apparently can't get from anyone else. It's simply economics, Wendy."

She rises, placing her hands firmly on the table. Card house #19, regrettably, is a casualty of this maneuver.

"Fuck. Off. Eric." She says each word purposefully, pointedly.

His eyes stare into hers for several seconds as he ponders her. Finally, he says nothing and storms off, convincing himself he does not need to miss any of the game.

* * *

><p>Halfway through the sluggish fourth quarter, Kyle sees the flashing lights while he rummages through the refrigerator for a pick-me-up. Because the sirens aren't blaring, he does not actually notice until both cars have pulled into the driveway, Craig's beater followed by the police cruiser.<p>

Kyle exchanges a glance with Wendy. They dash outside to find Craig standing in front of his car, arms crossed over his chest. Tweek is still in the passenger seat with the door closed. As the others flow out of the house to see what's happening, a female officer approaches the front porch.

"Afternoon, Kyle," she says.

"What's going on, Bev?"

"This delinquent a friend over yours?" she asks, nodding toward Craig.

"He's staying with me for the weekend. We had a funeral. What did he do?"

"I just blew through a fucking stop sign. That's all," Craig says, incredibly defensive.

"I pulled him over," Bev says, "because he failed to properly stop. I wasn't planning on giving him a citation because he's not from around here, but he has such an attitude on him that now I'm not so sure. When he told me he was a friend of yours, I just had to see it for myself."

"What, is Kyle too good to associate with petty criminals?" Craig says.

"Jesus, Craig, will you shut up?" Kyle snaps. "Look, Bev," he says to the officer, "I'm sorry about this. He's having a hard time. The guy who died was a really good friend of his, and a really good friend of mine."

Bev looks over at the assembled group on the porch. "Is that Stan Marsh?" she asks.

Kyle sighs. "Yeah, he's a friend of ours from college. Flew in from L.A. to be with us this weekend." Stan begins walking over, and Kyle fears he'll make the situation worse. "Maybe you could just let my friend Craig off with a warning?" he quickly adds.

"I'll tell you what," Bev says to Stan, crossing her arms. "My little boy's a big fan of your movies. If I can get your autograph for him, I think we can call it square. How's that sound?"

Kyle looks at Stan, who is nodding in agreement. "That would be excellent. Thank you!" Kyle says.

As Bev continues to chat with the movie star, Kyle walks over to Craig, who is still standing against his car, now staring off icily into the horizon.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" Kyle asks, his temper beginning to flare.

"What's it to you?" Craig replies, not making eye contact. "And when did you become so buddy-buddy with cops?"

"Hey, asshole," Kyle says, grabbing him. "That cop happens to be a friend of ours. Twice she's prevented us from being ripped off while we weren't in town. She's just doing her job, which I might add she's damn good at. There's no reason for you to act like a dick."

"I don't need this shit," Craig says as he marches off to the house, flipping Kyle off as he walks.

Kyle shakes his head in disbelief and glances back at the car. Tweek is still sitting in the front passenger seat, her knees up to her chest. She looks like she's coming down from a panic attack. Kyle knows from experience that it's best to let her come down naturally and that she'll be better soon enough.

He returns to the house himself, waving his hand in appreciation toward Bev. She nods back, grinning as she continues chatting with Stan. Bebe, Wendy, and Clyde follow Kyle back into the house. Eric, seeing an opportunity to help a Tweek in need, approaches the passenger side of Craig's car and gently knocks on the window. When she looks up to acknowledge him, he gives a friendly wave. She opens the door cautiously.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," she says.

"Are you okay?" he says. "You look a little shaken up."

"I'm fine," she whispers.

"It's okay, really," he adds, crouching down beside her. "You can tell me. I have all the time in the world to listen."

Tweek takes a breath and thinks about how much she hates it all. She hates cops; they have never been her friend. She hates seeing Craig, who she really enjoys, and Kyle, her mostly gracious host, fighting. She hates when people fight, in general. She hates how much she likes Craig this soon after Kenny's death. She hates that a part of her wants to sleep with Craig, though a larger part just wants to be with him all the time. She hates that, up until the cop starting tailing them, she had been having the best day she's had in a couple of weeks, that sitting with Craig and talking and drinking cheap wine in the makeshift living room of the old house on the property made her happier than she's been in a long time. She hates that after tomorrow, she'll probably never see Craig again. She hates herself for thinking these things, and when Eric Cartman gently rests his hand on her knee in a gesture of kind solidarity, she hates him for pretending to understand what she's going through and preying on her sentiments in a moment of presumed vulnerability. She hates him for it a great deal, in fact.

"Don't touch me!" she snaps.

"I'm sorry," he says, pulling away quickly. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Move," she says, trying to get out of the car. Eric quickly stands and backs away so as not to be plowed down. "I don't know what kinds of ideas you have about me and you, but you can hang it up. I'm not some princess that needs saving."

Tweek marches back into the house, leaving Eric alone the front lawn. He waits thirty seconds to walk back in himself, wanting to preserve at least a modicum of dignity.

By the time Eric begins what he imagines to be a sexless walk of shame, Stan and Bev have drifted to the side of the house, unseen by anyone else. After Stan gives the officer his autograph, she sticks her tongue down his throat, and he rubs her through the crotch of her slacks. They move like that for a minute, their hands roaming freely, out of eyesight of houseguests or neighbors. After giving his half-hard cock a long, firm squeeze through his jeans, Bev asks Stan for his number. He complies.

"I expect something good to happen before you leave town," she says when she turns away.

"Or what, Officer?" he asks, returning her flirtation.

"Or I might just have to lock you up for a long, long time," she replies, winking as she retreats to her cruiser.

Stan floats back into the house on a hazy cloud of hormones, giddiness, and preemptive regret. Especially after last night's bizarre encounter with Wendy, Stan assumed there would be zero chance of him getting laid this weekend, but now it seems the sex gods are smiling down in his favor. He mulls it over for a moment but ultimately decides he does not feel guilty for wanting to fuck this cop, nor should he. He owes nothing to Wendy, particularly not a baby.

From this vantage point, it seems serendipitous that Bebe had offered to wash the dress shirt Stan spilled white wine on yesterday evening. _It's nothing_, she told him as she threw the shirt on top of her laundry basket. _I'm washing a load, anyway_. How serendipitous indeed. The intellectual part of him knows it is stupid, but he considers this his lucky shirt, and it is. He is sure that if an accountant or Rain Man or even someone like Kyle tallied it up, they'd find that this shirt has brought Stan sex more often than not. If he has his way, it will do so again tonight.

He knocks on the door to the bedroom politely when he sees Bebe on the phone with her back turned. He enters the room, and Wendy gives him a little wave from the bed. Bebe turns around and looks thoroughly exasperated.

"No," she says to the phone, "you may not spend three entire weeks in Ann Arbor with Jennifer's family." And then: "It was very considerate of them to invite you, but your father and I would like to spend some time with you during the break, my darling."

Bebe nods to a clothes hanger on the closet door knob, where Stan's freshly pressed shirt is suspended inches above the ground. He walks to it and takes it, nodding appreciatively in Bebe's direction.

Wendy watches Bebe as she talks with her daughter. Before Stan interrupted, Wendy had been envying this conversation. She knows, on an intellectual level, that having children is difficult and brings with it many challenges. She knows this secondhand from Bebe, who has relayed to her in great detail many of the frustrations that Sophie and, more recently, Xavier, have brought with them. Despite that, Wendy knows more than anything that she wants a child, warts and all. She has entertained the glamorous thoughts of motherhood, but she is also prepared to bear the brunt of it.

"Your turn," Bebe says, walking over and pushing the phone in Wendy's direction. "I can't talk to her when she's like this."

Wendy takes the phone and clears her throat. "How are you doing, Sophie?" she asks, as though she had not just heard the argument that unfolded. She listens intently as Sophie fills her in on the high points. When she has a moment to get a word in, she does. She tells her what Bebe couldn't because that's how kids are: the wisdom of adults is okay as long as those adults are not the ones raising you.

Bebe smiles. Though she can no longer hear what Sophie is saying, she can tell by Wendy's laughing that her daughter, as is often the case, did a 180 when her "aunt" took the phone. As she continues to watch and listen, Bebe feels happy that Wendy is so good with Sophie but then feels sad at her friend's predicament, at what she has tried and so far failed to accomplish this weekend with the eligible bachelors of the house. She will have to think it over a little while longer, but Bebe knows on a primitive level that she must intervene. She just has to find the right time to do what needs to be done.

* * *

><p>Dinner, Kyle observes, starts more quietly than yesterday. There's a certain—what's the word?—<em>joie de vivre<em> missing, and he thinks it has something to do with the high tensions in the house. Personally, he hopes that he can avoid further confrontation with Craig but isn't holding his breath on that one. Additionally, there is some awkwardness between Stan and Wendy, who also seems to be growing increasingly annoyed with Eric—but who isn't? Even Tweek seems irritated by him, and Kyle wonders what offensive thing Eric has no doubt said to offend her this weekend. Milling about in his thoughts, Kyle does not realize how silent the room has become until Eric pipes up, piercing the air across the room.

"Can I ask you a personal question, Tweek?" he says, piquing the curiosity of everyone at the table.

Tweek shrugs, seemingly cool, though Kyle can see through her. The fingers of her left hand tapping against the table, he has observed over time, is an indication of her nervousness.

"What was it like, finding him?" Eric asks.

Tweek takes a breath and closes her eyes. She remembers the bathtub, the awfulness of it. "Not as bad as you'd think," she says. "But it was bad, you know?"

He leans forward. "How so?"

She starts to speak but then stops. "I'm sorry. This is weird. Can someone else do this? I don't like talking about myself as much as you guys do."

"I suppose that's fair," he says with a tinge of condescension.

"Has anyone seen any good movies lately?" Clyde asks after a moment. "I feel like I haven't gone to see a movie in forever."

"Why does everyone keep doing that?" Stan asks, annoyed, speaking for the first time since he arrived at the table.

"Doing what?" Clyde asks, a bit surprised by his friend's outburst.

"Every time we start talking about Kenny, someone changes the subject."

"It's a dead subject," Craig deadpans.

Stan glares at him. "I'm fucking serious. We're all here together this weekend, and we're supposed to be remembering him and paying homage to his memory. Instead, we've avoided thinking and talking about him whenever possible. I don't fucking get it. He was our friend."

"That's not fair," Clyde says. "I can't stop thinking about him."

"Neither can I," says Tweek quietly, silencing the room. "He was everything to me."

Kyle, fearing an argument on the horizon, tries to provide a voice of reason to corral the others.

"Not everyone grieves in the same way, Stan," he says. "I think sometimes we joke or change the subject because that's all we know how to do."

Bebe nods in agreement. "It's not easy for any of us. We're angry, and we're hurting. I can't speak for the rest of you, but I feel guilty, too. Sometimes I find myself wondering who Kenny even was these last few years."

"Same here," Wendy says. "I only lived a few hours away, and not once did I visit him after he moved here. It makes me feel like shit."

Kyle tries to bring it full circle. "We're all feeling this complicated mess of emotions, and it's hard because we're all still trying to process his death."

"I think that's a crock of shit," Craig says bitterly. "Everyone needs to stop patting themselves on the back and call it like it is. For most of us, Kenny was nobody anymore. He died a long time ago. _That_'s what we need to be acknowledging."

"Fuck you, asshole," Stan snaps. "_You're_ a crock of shit."

"That is so cynical, Craig," Wendy says. "You, of all people, should know that's not true."

"Should I?" he asks. "How well do you really know me, Wendy? How well do any of you know each other? Face it: it's a cold world out there, and at the end of the day, it's every man for himself. We can all pretend we're the best of friends, but the truth is, we knew each other a long time ago for a very short period of time. That's it. I feel no more connection to you people than I do the pariahs begging for change on the streets."

"What the hell happened to you?" Wendy says, disappointed. "You're better than this, Craig."

Kyle buries his face in his hands. "Can we please stop fighting? Please?"

Craig stands. "Fuck you, Kyle. You can't just sweep everything under the rug whenever something doesn't go your way. And fuck the rest of you, too." He pushes in his chair and storms out of the house.

"Goddamnit," Tweek whispers, sighing as she follows him a few seconds later.

It is a long eight seconds before Eric breaks the silence. "I know what Kenny would say if he was here," he says. "This calls for a good old fashioned orgy."

This is elicits a snort from Clyde, and after a moment, Wendy starts laughing. Bebe stands and stretches, grabbing a near-empty casserole dish.

"Could you give me a hand with something in the kitchen, honey?" she asks her husband. When they are alone, she sets the dish down and pulls him with her to the pantry. She pushes her face into his and slips her tongue into his mouth. "I need to ask a favor of you," she whispers as she kisses him. "It's okay to say _no_, but I hope you say _yes_."

* * *

><p>"What's the point to any of it?" Stan asks as he passes the bottle of merlot to Clyde, who swigs from it liberally before passing it to Eric.<p>

"There is no point," Clyde says. "That _is_ the point." He is impressed by his own depth.

"You two are killing me," Eric says. "Of course there's a point! The point is to have fun and get laid as much as possible. Lots of booze, lots of chicks, lots of fun. What's not to love?"

"Sounds like a really fulfilling life," Stan says as he rolls his eyes and finishes off the bottle.

Eric snorts. "Excuse me, Mr. High and Mighty. I'm sorry I don't feel as guilty about my success as you do."

"Yeah, Stan, lighten up," Clyde adds. "There's nothing wrong with enjoying the good life."

Stan knows he's wasting his time with these two. Kyle is the only person he can really talk to about this stuff, and sometimes he forgets that. He checks his phone: nothing. He sighs and decides to approach the conversation from a different angle.

"This weekend has just put everything into focus for me," he says. "I mean, what did Kenny's life really add up to?"

Eric shakes his head. "So much wasted potential."

"Yes," Stan says, "that's my point! What if I'm next? What if my plane drops out of the sky tomorrow? What if yours does? Or yours, Clyde? I can't help but feel that no matter what I do, I'm never going to be my best self. Sometimes it just feels like everything sucks, and there's nothing I can do about it."

"Oh, god," Eric says. "Here we go with this shit again."

"I know what you need," Clyde says to Stan. "You need to get laid. Always work for me."

Stan scoffs. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Stan checks his phone again. To his delight, a new message has materialized: _Shift just ended. Wanna meet somewhere, Commander?_

_Yes, please._

He clears his throat and stands. "I think I'll do that, then." He retrieves his jacket from where it's draped on an armchair.

"Whoa," Eric says. "Just like that? Where the fuck are you going?"

"I think he's going to bone the lady cop," Clyde says matter-of-factly.

"Dude, seriously?!" Eric asks.

Stan ignores them and leaves the room. As he approaches the front door, he encounters his best friend at the landing of the stairs.

"Going out?" Kyle asks.

Stan nods. "Going to pay a visit to Officer Bev. I wanna do my part to support local law enforcement."

Kyle laughs, shaking his head. "_Salud_, my friend. You have a spare key to let yourself back in?"

Stan retrieves his keys from this pocket and jingles them casually in Kyle's direction.

"Send my regards," Kyle adds, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Stan playfully flicks him off as he lets himself out, locking the door behind him.

Kyle takes a deep breath, bracing himself for what he is about to do. In their years of marriage, Kyle has allowed himself to stop being surprised by the things Bebe says and does that he once considered outside the norm. That was, of course, before he was ever in a serious relationship or had children, back when all he knew was the extraordinarily narrow lens through which he viewed the world. Time had undoubtedly changed him, though, just as it changes everyone. Over the years, Kyle has particularly found himself espousing more liberal views of sexuality. Granted, he does not think about his own sexuality all that often, relatively speaking. Tonight, though, is one of those nights when he is compelled to confront his sexuality _mano a mano_, prepared to vanquish it like a wild animal that is eager to lurch forward and rip out his throat at any moment. Kyle is not sure if this imagery is helpful or harmful as he knocks on the guest bedroom door, clad only in his bathrobe.

"Come in," he hears her say from the other side. He does.

"I'm not wearing anything," Wendy says from under the covers. "I thought you might want to know that."

Kyle closes the door behind him. "Good to know," he says, clearing his throat. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?" he asks her.

"Like I'm definitely ovulating."

He laughs and that, and so does she.

"Sorry, that was obviously not what you were asking."

He chuckles. "It's fine. But you're good?"

"Yeah, I'm good," she says, contentedly. "This isn't weird for you, is it?"

Kyle ponders the question before answering honestly. "A little, but I'm okay with that."

"Fair enough," she says, leaning forward to give him a light kiss on the lips. He reciprocates after only a split second's hesitation. "To be honest," she continues, "it feels like I got a really great deal on a used car."

He chuckles and sheds his robe before slipping under the sheets beside her. They fumble like teenagers, curious and the slightest bit hesitant, but better equipped than they were back then. They slip into one another and make music while the moon sings.

* * *

><p>On the floor in her room in the basement, Craig apologizes to Tweek for being an asshole today, for being an asshole always. She grabs his hand in a show of solidarity, not letting go when he initially tries to retract. To her surprise, he does not protest their handholding further.<p>

"I didn't mean to freak you out," he says. "I didn't realize you have a thing about cops."

She shakes her head. "It's fine, really. People like me, we just have to watch ourselves. Cops aren't always a safe haven. It can be scary. I've heard stories, you know—cops raping trans women and shit like that. It's really messed up, but it happens more than you'd think."

"Shit. I'm really sorry to hear that."

She moves closer to him and rests her head on his chest. She listens to him breathe for a minute before asking, "Did you mean what you said at dinner, about not caring about the others?"

"Yes," he says. "I probably shouldn't have said it, but it's the truth."

"That makes me sad."

"Why's that?"

"Because I want you to be happier. I want all of you to be happier."

"Are you a happy person?"

She shakes her head. "Not usually. I haven't met a whole lot of happy people in my life. I don't know what they're like."

He nods. "I'm sorry if what I said at dinner offended you—about Kenny, I mean."

"It didn't offend me. It just made me sad. We all have problems." She sighs and moves closer. They sit in silence until she asks him to tell her the story of how he met Kenny.

"Oh, man," Craig says, genuinely smiling for the first time since they left the property this afternoon. "It was crazy. There was this protest in front of the student union, not a very common thing where we went to school. Student housing prices were doubling, or something crazy like that. I decided to join the protest because fuck that shit. I didn't have a lot of friends back then; some things never change, I guess. Anyway, there were all these people, and nobody really knew what we were doing, and then all of a sudden, there's this crazy guy coming at us, shaggy blonde hair blowing in the wind, butt fucking naked running across the quad. When he got to where the rest of us were, he shouted something like _fuck this place_, and I could tell he was on something. It didn't take long for the campus police to come nab him, which sucked because I knew this was someone I definitely wanted to get to know better. Luckily, I recognized him. He was the guy who re-shelved books on the second floor of the library, back where people used to like to fool around. To be honest, I think he just enjoyed being a peeping tom, and that gave him a good excuse to do that."

Tweek smiles. "That sounds like Kenny."

"Why did you want me to tell you that story, anyway?"

"Kenny once told me that the day he met Craig Tucker was the single greatest day of his life. I asked him whether it was that day in particular that was special or if it was special because it led to him knowing you."

"What'd he say to that?" Craig asks.

"He just shrugged."

"Sounds like Kenny."

Tweek looks at Craig for a moment and climbs up onto the bed. She looks down at him, and he follows suit, taking a seat beside her on the mattress.

"I shouldn't have said those things at dinner," he tells her. "Kenny was my best friend. We grew apart, but I still cared for him, in a way. I'd occasionally wonder where he was or what he might be up to. None of the rest of these people really meant all that much to me. I always liked Test, but not really the way she liked me. I wasn't into women as much back then. Until I met my wife, I definitely preferred guys."

"Really?" Tweek asks, leaning forward. "Did you and Kenny ever have sex?"

"Once, right after we graduated. We were drunk that night. He was kinda terrible, to be honest."

Tweek blushes. "He must have gotten better over time."

Craig laughs. "Glad to hear."

"I'm not surprised you had sex. He never said as much, but the way he talked about you, it almost sounded like he was in love with you."

Craig nods. "In a way, I think that's true. And I guess I was sort of in love with him, too. But it wasn't really about sex or anything like that. What I felt for him—he was more like a brother, a brother I was in love with, I guess. That's a little fucked up, but it's how life is sometimes. Kenny and I had something real, whatever it was. We thought we were onto something. We hung out with Stan and Test, but they never really got it, you know? It was like they were outsiders, pretending. And the rest of them are fine, I guess. This is kind of fucked up, but if there's anyone I can say this to now, it's you: a couple of times this weekend I have wished it was one of the others who killed himself instead of Kenny. Maybe Clyde, or Eric. Kenny was the wrong one, the best one. It just doesn't seem fair. I know that's stupid because it was a suicide, but you know what I mean, right?"

"I know exactly what you mean," she says. She slips her arm around him, almost protectively, and rests her head on his chest again. She grabs her phone and puts on Pandora. They sit like that, music washing over them, until they both want to sleep but also don't. Eventually she reclines on her back, and he takes his place beside her. He grabs her hand and begins to drift off. Soon enough, for a little while, they are both someplace better.

Upstairs in the living room, Clyde also sleeps on his back, sprawled across a love seat with his legs dangling off the end. He snores more loudly than anyone Bebe has heard snore before.

"I wonder if he has some kind of sinus problem," she ponders aloud.

"Nah," replies Eric. "He always sleeps like that. I got used to it when we roomed together junior year."

Bebe, in her half-drunk, half-high state on the couch, cannot help but marvel at how tolerable Eric is when it's just the two of them like this. Not that she finds him as insufferable as Kyle and some of the others make him out to be. In a way, Bebe has always appreciated Eric's comparatively brash behavior. He is generally savvy enough to avoid being crass and aware of just how far he can push someone's buttons before they break. Bebe can't help but admire that quality in him, if she's completely honest with herself.

"The house is weird tonight," he says. "There is sex happening. I can feel it."

Bebe snorts. "You can 'feel' it?"

"There is most definitely sex in the air. It's intangible, but it's there. I can sense it, like an aura."

Bebe shakes her head and chuckles, but maybe Eric does have a sixth sense; they seem to be the only two unfazed by the sexual energy that hangs thick in the air like a fog of molasses. Wendy and Kyle, for the sake of this very special occasion, have obviously given into it. Neither Craig nor Tweek is particularly interested in sex tonight, but this fact bonds them closer together than any sort of physical intimacy might. Stan, in absentia, has surrendered himself to this sexual energy three times this evening already—a record since sophomore year of college—just as he surrounded to Officer Bev when she restrained him in her bedroom with a pair of police-issue handcuffs: being sexy in public, third degree. Even Clyde, in his dreams, has escaped to a more desirable locale, plowing Claudia the nanny in the back room of a bowling alley while his sons rampage through the arcade with their mother.

"The sexual tension is so high," Eric continues, "that I might surrender to it myself." He clears his throat and scoots closer. "Well, hello there, Bebe," he jokes.

She laughs, and he takes the chance to segue the conversation. He mentions the same "investment opportunity" to her that Kyle enthusiastically shot down during the repast. She laughs again, this time with a tinge of pity for his desperation. She tells him _good night_ and leaves him there. Flanked by a snoring Clyde, Eric thinks that, all things considered, being here in this house, surrounded by all of these ghosts, is not such a bad way to pass a weekend.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading! <em>_As always, I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd love to hear what you think so far. Please leave a review if you are so inclined; I greatly appreciate any and all feedback. Stay tuned for the riveting epilogue!_

_Cheers,_

_TEPR_


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